


Fourteen Days in (a Fool's) Paradise

by tmelange



Series: Something of a Fool [1]
Category: DCU - Comicverse, DCU Animated, Justice League & Justice League Unlimited (Cartoons)
Genre: Angst, First Time, Fortress of Solitude, M/M, Plot-Intensive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-27
Updated: 2011-07-27
Packaged: 2017-10-21 19:51:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 28,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/229099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tmelange/pseuds/tmelange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lex Luthor has hit upon an insidious new way to disable Superman that taps into the Man of Steel's hidden desires, and it's a race against time for Batman to uncover enough of the plot to save his teammate and friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first installment in a series called "Something of a Fool".
> 
> This was my first Superman/Batman story, written in 2006.

_We yearn for eternity—but inhabit only time._

–Pascal

 **1—**

 _Six days ago, late at night . . . at the Fortress of Solitude . . ._

Superman— _Clark_ —set them down lightly in the entranceway to the Fortress, the end of their journey illuminated by a wash of brilliant moonlight that bounced off the crystal pillars, silvering the space between them. Batman— _Bruce_ —stepped backwards, out of the circle of his arms. The stillness, the sound of a heartbeat, the sensation of his lungs filling and emptying, filling and emptying—all seemed enveloped in a feeling of escalating panic. Clark closed his eyes and held his breath against an intolerable urge to call the whole thing off. His muscles tightened in preparation, ready to send them spiraling into the sky, back to the Watchtower, back to reality. It was only the hand that reached out to touch his chest that stemmed the tide; only the fingers that cupped his face, gently, and the man who leaned towards him, gazing into his eyes with the intensity, the confidence that only Batman seemed to possess. Those eyes—they were a lighter shade of blue than his own, almost the color of blue-tinged ice. In this diffused light, they looked practically translucent.

Clark could not move. He was held in place by an intense desire to know what would come next. And next. And _next_ —he shivered at all the things that could come next.

Bruce did not keep him waiting.

A hand trailed from his chest and across his arm, then behind and along the line of his shoulder blades as Bruce circled him like the darkness. Clark held himself still, tried to slow his wildly racing heart; stopped breathing as a strong arm wrapped around him from behind, and the entire length of Bruce's body pressed against his backside, making his stomach clench and his face flush with heat. Nibbling on his neck, mouth pressed to tender skin, Bruce whispered, _"Clark,"_ and the dark sound made his stomach lurch—made him feel like he was careening in a car with no brakes, and was way out of his league.

But Bruce only tightened the circle of his arms and brought a hand down the front of him, across the flat plain of his stomach, and breached the waistband of his shorts. Clark inhaled sharply as fingertips lightly brushed his erection. All at once, the panic seeped right out of him, replaced by a frantic need to _move_ before he embarrassed himself. Clark spun around, just in time for his teammate's lips to claim his own possessively and with a passionate press that demanded entry into his mouth, demanded his entire concentration. Fingers tangled in his hair, a hand moved down his backside, sending electric currents up and down his spine, and pulled him closer— _so close_ —it was as if Bruce intended that they would never be separated again.

Too many sweet sensations, the pressure between them building, building, so different this time from their stunted and aborted gropings at the Watchtower that had led them to this extremity, more tender but still urgent and tight. Bruce kissed his neck, licked the salt from the hollow of his throat with a tickling tongue, and all Clark could do was close his eyes and concentrate on each sensation, determined to commit every fluttering feeling to memory, in case Bruce came to his senses and this was the last time—the only time—they could ever do this.

"Wait."

Clark froze, afraid that what he wanted most was about to be taken from him; that the dream would end, abruptly, with only the memories of a week of sticky, sweaty, inchoate promises, a week of promises unfulfilled.

"Not here."

Then Clark understood. This was not a good place to start this—in the open-air antechamber with the enormous statues of his biological mother and father as witnesses and no provisions for comfort—though Clark wondered what Bruce would do if he just dropped to his knees and escalated the situation the way Bruce had last week in the shower. But Clark didn't want to rush this time. He wanted to know Bruce tenderly, leisurely, without feeling stressed, without the need to be circumscribed or covert. Better to impress Bruce with the wonders of his house, his own version of a Batcave—his Fortress of Solitude. Better for everything to be slow, and intimate, and perfect.

He held out a hand. "Come."

Bruce took it.

Clark placed the other arm around Bruce's waist and lifted them into the air. "I know you've been here before," he said, smiling, "but I have something to show you that I've never shown anyone."

Bruce returned his smile with that little ironic, worldly twist, and to see the way the corners of his eyes crinkled made Clark that much more grateful that Bruce had divested himself of the cowl . . . _somewhere._ Clark couldn't remember when Bruce had taken it off—at the Watchtower, perhaps?—but to have an unimpeded view of the man's whole face, and to feel that soft hand sneak from Clark's shoulder to his hair to play with a curling lock made Clark feel like he had died— _was dying in increments_ —and had gone to heaven.

"Holding out on me?"

"Never."

They landed in Clark's inner sanctum, the part of the Fortress that was his own, that couldn't even be seen when he had visitors; the place that, more than any other place he had ever lived, most closely reflected the complex nature of his soul. The Fortress computer, practically a living thing, was so attuned to his needs that Clark knew the sanctum would be exactly how he'd want Bruce to see it: startling, awe-inspiring, absolutely beautiful—just like Bruce.

Clark's faith in the computer was rewarded. Bruce could only stare.

"Where are we?"

Clark smiled, wistfully. "This is the night sky as it used to be over Krypton on the day I was born. It is something no one else on Earth has ever seen, or will ever see again." _I give it to you._

"Is this a hologram? It feels like we're floating—"

"Of a sort. It's real, in a way. The Fortress computer can do amazing things, and the things it creates can exist outside of the laws of time and space as we know them. It's sort of complicated. If you want, I'll tell the computer to explain it to you . . . later."

Bruce leered. "So where's the bed?"

Clark pointed at a low-flying cloudbank. "You're joking." Bruce shook his head at Clark's blush. "Okay. If you say so."

"Are you hungry?" Clark asked, embarrassed. "Thirsty? I can have the computer—"

As the words left his mouth, there appeared on the other side of the expanse a table with all manner of delicacies. Bruce walked over to it slowly, shaking his head in amazement, took a grape and popped it in his mouth. "Is this some sort of teleportation? Did the computer make this? Why haven't you ever mentioned that the Fortress could do this?"

"Well, it never really came up. The computer—"

Suddenly, Bruce raised a hand, halting Clark mid-sentence. "You were right, Clark. We can talk about this later."

Clark's eyes widened as Bruce proceeded to disconnect his cape and let it fall out of the sky. Unbuckled his belt and let it find its own way to wherever with a muffled thud. Pulled the top of his suit off over his head and worked his way out of the rest of his body armor, creating a haphazard pile of expensive equipment floating, and a naked billionaire, standing there in all of his substantial glory.

Thus disrobed, Bruce proceeded to stalk across the sky like a shooting star, unabashedly naked. _Beautiful._ Clark stood with his mouth gone completely dry at the sight—of his friend's broad shoulders, the chiseled expanse of chest, the tight torso, his beautifully long legs, the skin that was smooth, luminous, radiant, and, of course, his jutting erection that seemed to draw the eye like the sight of something marvelous but taboo. Somehow, it was different seeing Bruce _completely_ naked by moonlight, completely different from the impressions gleaned when Bruce exited the showers at the Watchtower or in a rush of stolen intensity while expecting someone to catch them in a passionate embrace.

Bruce was standing close enough to touch and the softest hands in the world found his face, his mouth. Flushed and excited, Clark sucked at those long fingers, shuddered with anticipation as he felt hot breath whisper in his ear; shuddered again as one tender earlobe was captured by mouth, caressed by tongue, nibbled on by sharp teeth.

"Your suit, Clark."

Faster than a bolt of lightning, Clark was as naked as his teammate. Not to be outdone by Bruce's natural aggressiveness, Clark closed the distance between them again and swept a hand lightly over Bruce's chest. Nipples went hard and round under his fingers, and Bruce's head lolled back.

"Damn," Bruce whispered.

He shifted, and Clark's heart slammed in the confines of his chest, certain that Bruce was about to say _enough_ and push him away, but all Bruce did was reposition their bodies so they could get _closer,_ so that all their most sensitive parts fit together _like a puzzle._

Their bodies—damp with sweat and heat—pressed tightly against each other, granite-hard cocks trapped between hips moving in desperate need. Not wanting to wait any longer, Clark pressed them back until they both fell onto a cloud that floated by in response to his desire. Never separating, bodies close enough to be chiseled from the same piece of marble, though Clark made sure that he landed on top.

This might be his only opportunity to show Bruce how good they could be together, to stave off the objections he knew Bruce would raise as soon as sense returned: they were **teammates,** with a **working** relationship, that would be **complicated** by sex and the creation of **attachments.** Not to mention Bruce's control issues… Clark knew that this might be his one chance to prove to his friend that Bruce could trust him enough to hand over his legendary control, to convince him that he wanted to. So Clark made sure he landed on top and began his assault upon the brightest star in his sky.

Clark traveled down Bruce the way he would fly across an open expanse in a new, undiscovered country, slowly, avidly, paying a reverential attention to every small detail, licking, biting, sucking. Making his way down. Blowing on the curly hair of his chest. _Down._ Making Bruce's nipples as erect as small stones. _Down._ Running his face against the soft, smooth skin of his belly, nuzzling, licking the small indenture that was his belly button. _Making his way down._

Bruce's pubic hair was as coarse and aromatic as summer grass before it was cut to make hay. Clark buried his face in that hair, breathing deeply as one hand restrained Bruce's jerking hips and the other wrapped itself around the thick barrel of his cock, exploring the texture, coaxing pearls of moisture from the tip and spreading that creamy liquid around the head.

Lightly, Clark began to lick his balls.

Bruce arched his back helplessly. Clark's insistent tongue laved him in exactly the right places, around and around his balls, lapping, fierce, rhythmic, along his stem, and below that, licking and sucking at the tight rim of his anus, pressing his tongue to the small hole, working it open, moistening that small space while his hand stroked the length of Bruce's cock, jerking up and down in a motion as inexorable as the rising of the moon at night. Just a thought directed at the computer produced what he would need to stretch Bruce, and Clark took only a moment to dribble some oil onto his fingers in preparation…

Clark smiled triumphantly as Bruce moaned, begging, sighing, when he slowly slipped a finger inside, then two, while his mouth took over for his hand and engulfed Bruce's engorged tip, then the entire shaft. Clark began a rhythmic pumping with his fingers—now there were three fingers inside—with his mouth full of what had to be, in Clark's mind, the world's most beautiful cock.

Bruce grabbed a handful of Clark's hair, pulling, trying to hold that mouth in place as his hips jerked up and down. Clark clasped those hips with both hands, sucked harder, just as Bruce, with a shout, exploded like a volcano.

Though ready—and more than ready—Clark couldn't do what he desperately wanted to do without explicit permission from one of the only men in the world that he admired as an equal.

"Bruce—"

"Just do it, Clark," he growled. _"Now."_

Quickly, Clark pushed Bruce's legs up until they were resting on his shoulders. Using strong fingers to spread his cheeks, Clark slowly, so slowly, sheathed himself, balls-deep, in Bruce's body.

It was almost too much for him, the tightness, the heat, the incredible dark heat that enfolded him, engulfed him, as if it would never let him go. Carefully, Clark set a rhythm of long and deep strokes, shuddering with the exquisite _feel_ of it all. He tried desperately to keep control of the pressure rising in the pit of his stomach as he picked up his pace, moving faster, harder, deeper, slamming into Bruce's body, trying to reach that one special place . . . finding it, banging into it again, and again.

Delirious, Bruce called his name, and taunted, and urged him on.

For a moment, Clark was aware of the harsh sounds they made, in counterpoint to their thrusting, and then he forgot everything but the exquisite contractions, the taste of flesh, the multi-hued _lust_ filling him.

"It feels—" Clark gasped.

"You feel—" His breath caught in his throat.

"—so good!" he yelled, slamming into him. Clark hesitated for just an instant, giving Bruce a moment to catch his breath, before sliding back into a slow rhythm, an aggressive, escalating motion.

"No . . ." Bruce whispered, his voice deep and low in his throat. "Don't stop . . . Clark . . . Please . . . _Don't stop…."_

Clark was now in full control. He leaned over, capturing Bruce's mouth with his own lips, sucking on his tongue as he thrust, and thrust, and thrust himself home.

Nothing had ever felt as good as this. _Nothing._

Too many sensations—the smooth texture of skin, the pressure of Bruce's hands, one on his shoulder, the other tangled in his hair; the rush of breath in his ear; the inexorable tension building in Clark's stomach. Far too many sensations. Clark realized he would have to do this again just to count them all. And again. _And again._

His breathing became ragged and he moved faster. With each deep and shattering thrust, with every one of Bruce's breathless invocations— _Clark_ —it all fell into its proper balance: perfect, pleasing, impossibly simple and elegant. Transcendent. Clark felt his soul ease into a state of purest peace—as he had never experienced in any other way. Afterwards, breathing erratically, lying at the top of a sweaty press of bodies, a glorious entanglement of arms and legs, part of the sky that was the home in his soul, he was sated. He was serene. He was as _happy_ as he had ever been.

Much later, he lay at last at peace, with Bruce sprawled bonelessly across his chest. Restively, with his thumb, Bruce stroked his side.

"Is it hard for you?" Bruce asked abruptly, his voice intense with shadows.

"What?"

"Do you have to keep a part of yourself separate, to keep control?"

Clark hesitated, unsure of the proper response, what Bruce wanted to hear—when he, more than anyone, knew the answer. "Always," he admitted. "I can't just—"

"I want you to lose that control with me, Clark," his voice was dark, delicious. "I won't break."

"But—"

Bruce hushed him, raising a finger to his lips. "Let me think about it," he said. "I'll find a way."

Clark quieted, wanting more than anything right then to be whatever Bruce wanted him to be, whoever his long-time friend and new lover thought he needed. He wanted to believe that Bruce was right—that there would come a time when they could be just Bruce and Clark but without costumes and disparate abilities, or just Batman and Superman but without a world waiting to be saved, or just a young man from Earth and Kal-El of the planet Krypton.

"Superman." The Fortress computer, always on alert, programmed to broadcast any call from another member of the Justice League.

Clark sighed, wistfully. "Diana. Seems our time is up."

Bruce nodded but instead of letting Clark up, he took him in his arms and kissed him sweetly. Then they both got up and got dressed and headed back to reality where they were expected, once again, to save the world before saving each other.


	2. Chapter 2

**2—**

 _Yesterday . . . at Justice League headquarters . . ._

The Dark Knight entered the Watchtower control room. He had just read the mission report submitted by Clark and J'onn and it contained…an unacceptable amount of vagueness. While many of the technical details were there—how team members were compromised; how Clark's Fortress had been breached; how Clark and J'onn had been injured—the essential _reasoning_ behind it all was completely missing.

Finding Clark at his Fortress without his powers, in the midst of his enemies, practically dead, bleeding— _actually bleeding!_ —from multiple wounds was a scene Bruce would never likely forget. His reaction, very near to panic if he were to tell the truth, was wholly different from his reaction just a few short months ago when he had thought Clark had been killed—disintegrated—by the blast of Toyman's Kryptonite disrupter beam. That incident happened like a flash of lightning, suddenly and without warning—one second Clark was there, fighting, and the next he was gone. There was no body, no blood, no tears of pain in eyes the color of a bright, cloudless sky; nothing red and graphic to remain burned on the backs of his eyelids, just a split second of amazement—and weeks of comforting denial. The scene he had stepped into at the Fortress, however, was as different from that simple and palatable incident as water is from fire. It was only now, a day later, after he'd had time to process his reactions that he realized just how much he had come to rely on Clark's invulnerability. Clark was supposed to be the one person he didn't have to worry about, the one person who could take care of himself. To know that if he— _they_ —had arrived just seconds later it would have been too late to save Clark was unacceptable, simply unacceptable.

He was going to find out exactly what happened. He required every detail. No vague excuse for a report would serve as a substitute for full disclosure. He would find out how Lex Luthor had gotten so close to Clark, how he had gotten under his guard, and Batman would make sure it. Never. Happened. Again.

Ever.

Even if he had to use Wayne Enterprises to take LexCorp apart piece by piece.

But interrogating J'onn was the first order of business.

He found the Martian at his assigned location: completing his shift on watch duty in the crow's nest. Stealthily, Batman moved to a position on the observation deck where he could see J'onn without being noticed himself. Ordinarily, J'onn's telepathic ability would prohibit this type of surveillance, but J'onn was clearly thinking about other things, slowly pacing the restrictive confines of the watch post, and perhaps his powers were not up to full capacity after the removal of the nanites. Even so, it took Batman only a couple of minutes of study to confirm what he had noticed during the mission de-briefing in the conference room: J'onn was acting more pensive than usual since they had all returned from the Fortress, like he had something bottled up inside, like he was about to burst. Clearly, the Martian was hiding something. Satisfied that he had tested and proven his theory, Batman took the elevator up to the top of the observation column.

Batman wasted no time on pleasantries.

"I am not happy with the mission report."

J'onn stopped pacing and turned a demeanor of studied Martian calm in his direction.

"Batman."

"The report."

J'onn hesitated. It was a pause barely a millisecond in length but Batman knew his teammate well enough to recognize what it was: the span of time it took J'onn to decide to say or not to say something. If Batman wasn't sure that J'onn was hiding crucial details about the incident that almost killed Clark before, he was absolutely positive now.

"As always, I endeavored to be as complete as possible. My apologies if it was not up to your standards."

Batman scowled and his voice dropped an octave. "Your… _report,"_ he said, sarcastically, "doesn't explain what you were doing at the Fortress in the first place or what _convinced_ Superman to divest himself of his powers, leaving himself vulnerable."

J'onn shrugged a shoulder, a disconcertingly human gesture that looked completely out of place on the Martian. "I provided you with all the information that was pertinent. There was nothing more that needed to be included in the report."

Equivocation. There was nothing Batman hated more than when a suspect tried to mislead him with partial truths. He folded his arms across his chest. "The team agreed that filing complete reports was crucial to developing our ability to stay one step ahead of our most dangerous foes. If we start picking and choosing what is and is not _pertinent,_ we leave the team open to critical lapses of intel. We _all_ agreed to full disclosure; you don't get to choose."

J'onn's voice was lightly skeptical, though still unfailingly moderate. "So, you have come to me because you are worried about an incomplete mission report? This is not about Superman?"

Infuriated, but refusing to show it, Batman didn't dignify the implication with a response.

J'onn continued, "Why come to me? I am only your colleague. Superman is your friend. What I neglected to include in the report involves him exclusively. He would be the best person to answer your questions."

"I'm asking you."

"I am sorry. I have already said all that I can say on the matter. I will not discuss this further with you. Talk to Superman. If there is more to be said, he is the person with the right to say it."

Of course, naming the problem made it just that much more likely to manifest, especially when the "problem" had super-hearing and didn't have the common courtesy to use the elevator to interrupt an important confrontation rather than flittering up like a big blue bird in a red cape.

"Batman, what's going on? What are you doing?"

Batman scowled, but his reaction changed almost immediately to consternation when he realized that although Superman was speaking to him, he barely glanced in his direction; that the Boy Scout's eyes seemed to shy away from his own, like he, too, had something to hide. Superman's eyes settled, instead, with concerned intensity on J'onn.

"J'onn, are you okay?"

Batman couldn't help but catalog every amazing affront. Superman's demeanor was deferential towards J'onn, conciliatory, concerned. Knowing Superman like the back of his hand, the Dark Knight could easily categorize what was going on: for some reason Superman felt protective of J'onn, or guilty, or protective _and_ guilty. He had seen Clark's hang dog expression too many times before not to recognize it on sight. When had this situation with J'onn developed…and why? Batman's scowl deepened. If there was a change in team dynamics, he needed to know about it.

"I am fine, Kal-El. Thank you."

"Okay, but if you need anything—"

This had gone on for long enough. The Boy Scout was practically ignoring him, and it wasn't as if he was going to _hurt_ J'onn. "Superman, I want to talk to you."

"Not now," he said, and flew away.

Batman had to clench hands that itched to throw a Batarang at his back.

He returned his attention to J'onn but found that the Martian had already resumed his contemplation of the stars, dismissing him entirely. Batman growled in frustration, turned with a swirl of his cape and headed for the elevator. If J'onn thought that this was the end of it, he was in for a rude awakening. They didn't call him the World's Greatest Detective for nothing.

+

 _Meanwhile . . . somewhere in the sewer system below Metropolis . . ._

"So this is the result of your grand plan," Grodd growled at Lex Luthor's back as he stepped in yet another putrid puddle of human waste, "—an ignominious defeat at the hands of the Justice League, our allies incarcerated, and the two of us hiding in the sewers like a couple of rats. Tell me Luthor, are all your plans such phenomenal wastes of time, or was I just lucky?" Grodd ducked under a low hanging pipe as he attempted to follow the annoying billionaire through the maze of tunnels below the city of Metropolis. The city's sewer system was not meant to accommodate creatures of his size and the inconvenience and the smell were doing nothing for his irritability level.

Lex glanced back briefly, shaking his head in disgust. "You have no idea what you're talking about," he said, disdainfully, as he turned and continued on his way. "I'm not surprised that the subtleties of my plans would be beyond the comprehension of an overgrown ape. And we are _not_ hiding in the sewers."

"Gorilla."

"Whatever." Lex made a sharp left turn and stopped in front of a nondescript wall. He smirked at his companion, reached up to the light fixture that provided a dim underground illumination for the sewer system's many workers, and pulled. A panel slid back on the opposite wall, revealing a keypad and ocular identifier. Lex hurried over, entered some numbers, leaned in for a scan of his eye, and stepped back triumphantly as the wall slid up, revealing an expansive compound equipped with every technological convenience that would ordinarily be available to a man of Luthor's means.

"As I said, we are not hiding in the sewers. This is all part of my plan." He waved a hand dismissively. "After you."

Grodd walked into the underground bunker, followed closely by Lex. As the door slid shut behind them he let out a slow whistle. He looked around at the mainframe computer, the large screen projectors with open surveillance feeds from multiple locations throughout Metropolis, the fully equipped laboratory and everything else that made this base almost indistinguishable from one of LexCorp's many tech facilities. Truly, Lex Luthor did not skimp where his back-up base of operations was concerned. "Impressive," Grodd admitted, "but it doesn't change the fact that all of your talk was just that—talk. Your grand plans have been ruined. Superman could break down that door at any moment." Grodd made a small sound of disgust. "He certainly has enough motivation."

Lex walked over to the computer system and Grodd followed. "Ah, Superman," Lex said with a curl of his lip. "I wouldn't worry about him." He made a gesture. "These walls are lined with lead. Not even Superman could find us down here."

Grodd shrugged. "I take that back then. Apparently, you think of everything."

"I certainly do."

Turning quickly as someone entered the main chamber though a side door that he hadn't noticed, Grodd relaxed as he recognized Lex's female bodyguard Mercy. She was alone and didn't seem surprised to see either himself or Luthor.

"Lex," she greeted her employer as she approached with her hands clasped behind her back.

"Mercy. Did you have any problems?"

"None at all."

"Good," he said, with an anticipatory grin. "It's time to initiate phase two."

Grodd folded his hands across his chest and scoffed. "Ah, there's yet _another_ second phase to this debacle. I'm on pins and needles."

Lex just reached out and patted Grodd on the back in a condescending manner and turned to his bodyguard. "Did you queue the recordings?"

"Of course, Lex." She passed him a remote control.

"Good. Let's see what we have to work with." He pressed a series of buttons.

Grodd, skeptical but willing to humor the man—after all, Luthor still had yet to pay him for this mess—was amazed to see eight of the large screen monitors flicker and then register eight different intimate encounters. Eight different sexual encounters between . . . Superman and Batman. Grodd's mouth fell open as he counted three erotic interludes in some otherworldly place, a number of incidents in similarly designed locations that Grodd figured were all part of the Justice League headquarters. There was even a monitor that displayed a lewd encounter in a Metropolis alleyway! Grodd blinked twice. Thankfully, the sound was muted.

"This is phase two?" he asked Luthor incredulously.

Luthor chuckled wickedly low in his throat. "This, my dear ape, is most certainly phase two."

"Gorilla. _Gorilla."_

"Whatever."

"Luthor, you are beginning to annoy me," Grodd said menacingly. "What does your pornography collection have to do with our ultimate goals? You pulled us all together; promised a big payout and an end to the Justice League, but you've managed to deliver nothing—"

"Calm down. I will explain." Lex paused a moment as something on one of the screens caught his attention. He sniffed disdainfully, and then continued. "I knew our main plan would fail. There was no real way that you group of clowns would ever be able to take out the Justice League, despite my best-laid plans. Victory requires a certain character and fortitude that the average criminal simply lacks."

Grodd ground his teeth in frustration at the insult and Lex's lecturing tone, but stopped himself from interrupting. He decided the best way to figure out Lex Luthor was to let the man enjoy the sound of his own voice.

"The destruction of the Justice League was merely a pretext to ensure the participation of some of our more simple-minded associates. Our clashes with the Justice League over the past two weeks were a necessary diversion to gain us access to Superman's base of operations, in particular, his Kryptonian computer." He held up the crystal that Doctor Destiny had managed to deliver up prior to his capture. "This crystal gives me the upper hand on the Brainiac virus that has disabled the LexCorp computer system. A necessary and laudable step, and precisely in line with my original presentation of this operation." With a self-satisfied smirk, Lex continued, "It was only my end game that I held close to the vest." He waved a hand at the monitors. "The subtleties would have been lost on that group of plebs."

While Lex seemed completely satisfied with himself, Grodd had used up his supply of patience. All he was concerned about was destroying the Justice League, and, in particular, the big alien in the blue tights. He didn't appreciate being told that he was basically a pawn in some game he was not privy to and that had no relation to his ultimate goal—getting the Justice League out of his hair. He growled and advanced on the obnoxious billionaire, grabbing him by the front of the shirt and slamming him into a wall. He felt the bodyguard, Mercy, attach herself to his right side in an attempt to pull him off, but he just shook his arm and sent her flying. "Are you saying that it was never your intention to kill Superman, to destroy the Justice League?"

"Kill Superman?" Lex queried disdainfully, if somewhat breathlessly. "Why in the world would I want to do that? And get your hands off of me you overgrown monkey."

Grodd stared at the billionaire in amazement for a moment, and then abruptly let him go. His head was hurting. Obviously, Lex Luthor had lost his mind somewhere. Grodd merely needed to convince the maniac to pay him so they could go their separate ways.

"Gorilla. _Gorilla!"_

Lex straightened his clothing. _"Whatever."_

Raising an eyebrow, Lex scoffed, "I see I might have put too much faith in your intelligence. I don't want to kill Superman. I don't _need_ to kill the alien. I'm going to show the world that Superman is no better than anyone else; that given the right set of circumstances, the right stimulus, even the world's _paragon_ will resort to the most _base_ behavior." Lex smirked. "The goal of our operation was threefold: First, I needed to obtain the crystal to free my company from Brainiac's virus; second, I used Brainiac's knowledge of the Kryptonian computer to leave Superman a little present; and third, and most importantly, I orchestrated this—" he gestured towards the monitors that were still displaying their lewd recordings, "the perfect blackmail material."

Lex chuckled darkly. "Napoleon said it is the same with strategy as with the siege of fortresses. Concentrate fire on a single point. When the breach is made, the equilibrium is broken. All the rest becomes useless and the fortress is taken. That—" he gestured again at the monitors, "is the single point of the breach. It will enable me to get Superman to do something against his nature _just once._ Once the equilibrium is broken, the fortress— _Superman_ —will fall." His voice took on a patronizing tone. "It is always our heroes that fall the farthest, since they have so much further to fall."

Baring his teeth, Lex added, "Finding out that Bruce Wayne is Batman—well, that's just gravy."

Grodd sighed. "This is all very amusing, Luthor, but I think it would be best if you just arranged for my payment and we were to go our separate ways."

"Of course. Give me a moment and you'll get what’s coming to you."

Lex exited the main room through the door that had earlier admitted Mercy. Thinking of the bodyguard made Grodd look in her direction. She was standing on the other side of the room, none too worse for wear for having been thrown twenty feet, raptly watching the monitors. Grodd returned his attention to the screens and winced. The recordings seemed to be on some sort of loop because he didn't think that humans had the stamina to mate for such an extended period of time. Although Mercy seemed to be enjoying the spectacle, Grodd thought the two Justice Leaguers looked about as appealing as a couple of rutting troglodytes. He would never understand the mating habits of humans.

Turning as Lex re-entered the room with a briefcase in hand, Grodd breathed a sigh of relief that this sordid affair was about to reach its conclusion. "Luthor," he said, "I would like to say that it's been a pleasure but . . ." He didn't bother to finish the sentence. After all, what was there to say about Lex and his outrageous plans?

Placing the suitcase on the conference table, Lex looked over at Grodd with a raised eyebrow before opening the lock. "Fortunately, I have your payment right here."

Grodd had a moment to react as Luthor raised a gun from the briefcase and fired two shots. That moment was only long enough for Grodd to wonder why his mind control powers didn't seem to work on Luthor before the blackness overtook him.

Lex reached behind his right ear and removed the patch that had allowed him to block Grodd's mind control powers. He smirked at his bodyguard. "Well, my dear," he said, "that takes care of the last loose end. Please have our friend removed to the holding facility at the lab complex. The tranquilizer will keep him out for at least five hours."

Mercy returned his smile. "Of course, Lex."


	3. Chapter 3

**3—**

 _Eleven days ago . . . at Justice League headquarters . . ._

When Clark entered the Watchtower infirmary and saw three empty beds, he could only shake his head in disgust.

"Where's Batman?"

"He—"

"Never mind."

Clark found the Dark Knight in the east training room where he sometimes went to blow off steam if he wasn't heading directly back to Gotham. It was exactly where he knew Bruce would be because, if the man was anything, he was a creature of habit, and he always spent time honing his skills after a mishap, punishing himself for some perceived inadequacy that had led to his injury. Usually, when Bruce planned to use the Watchtower training facilities, he had enough sense to ask Clark to spot him. The simulators were dangerous to operate alone, and Bruce was notorious for pushing his workout routine past any safe limit. Not to mention that this time, Bruce was not supposed to be out of bed yet, let alone working out. Clark was not happy.

He overrode the privacy lock on the door and stepped inside gingerly, aware he could be walking into the middle of a battle sequence, throwing Bruce off and causing the man further injury. He needn't have worried; apparently, he caught Bruce while he was still engaged in his elaborate stretching and agility routine, a routine that could easily take hours. Clark closed the door to the training room and reengaged the privacy lock, this time disabling the override, ensuring that no one would disturb them either in person or through video surveillance. Bruce was a nut about his privacy, especially while training, and especially while training in anything other than his Batsuit. Clark figured if he had to incite the Bat's wrath in order to get him to agree to take it easy because of his recent injury, he didn't want to further irritate him by having some miscellaneous Leaguer interrupt him when he wasn't wearing cape and cowl.

Clark walked over to the edge of the mat where Bruce was engaged in a complicated stretch that had him contorted and sweating. As he had been so many times over the years, Clark was struck by his friend's almost palpable strength and grace of form. Once again, Clark was amazed that Bruce was able to keep his identity a secret at all. It seemed so obvious to him that Bruce Wayne and Batman were the same person, with that sly thrum of dangerousness that seemed to float around him like an aura, no matter what he happened to be wearing.

"Bruce."

No response. Clark crossed his arms over his chest and adopted his most determined expression.

"Acting like I'm not here is not going to work."

"I can hope."

Clark sighed inaudibly. "What are you doing? You're supposed to be in bed."

Bruce finally looked in his direction, and after a pause, unfolded his limbs and faced Clark with his hands in fists on his hips. Clark recognized Bruce's patented "stance of obstinacy" and briefly considered making a joke about the man's mussed hair or that the black gi he was wearing made him look like one of those ninja dolls they were selling last Christmas. He could suggest Bruce consider convincing Tyco to take the Batman dolls off the shelves in favor of this new look. Assessing the glint in his teammate's icy blue eyes, however, Clark thought better of it.

Bruce growled, "Who died and made you my nurse?"

"You did, you stupid—!" Clark took a deep breath. "If you don't get yourself back to the infirmary I'll—"

"You'll what? Spank me? Sorry, Clark, but I don't need an overgrown babysitter. I'm perfectly capable of determining my own needs."

Clark made a quick inspection of Bruce's vitals—heartbeat, circulation, and chest x-ray—and had to admit that the man seemed none the worse for wear. He decided that arguing about whether Bruce should or should not be exercising was pointless and, instead, refocused his attack on getting Bruce to allow him to stay, just in case Gotham's favorite son went overboard with the workout.

"Stop that."

"Stop what?" Clark asked, with a raised eyebrow.

"Examining me like I'm some lab rat. Just because you have x-ray and microscopic vision doesn't mean you should use it to invade the privacy of your colleagues."

"I wasn't—"

"Clark—"

"Okay, I was, but I just wanted to make sure you won't injure yourself further by being in here too soon. We'd all like you back on your feet as soon as possible. A setback would only create a problem for everyone."

Bruce made an unintelligible noise deep in his throat. "And?"

"Huh?"

Bruce rolled his eyes and sighed. "What did your examination tell you?"

"Oh, that you seem fine."

"Right. I could have told you that. Matter of fact, I think I did." Bruce shook his head and scoffed, and then headed back to the middle of the mat to resume his routine. He glanced briefly in Clark's direction with just a hint of annoyance at finding him still standing there watching him.

"Something else?" he asked in a long-suffering voice.

Clark floated his request tentatively. "Need someone to spot you?"

"Believe it or not, I wasn't planning on doing any heavy lifting," a pause, and Clark just knew he was about to be banished, "but since you're here, I could use a sparring partner."

Clark couldn't help the grin that spread across his face, and was happy to see it mirrored, albeit in a more restrained way, on the face of his friend in place of the usual scowl. They both knew that it wasn't often enough that they had the chance to practice together. The two of them were surprisingly well-matched when it came to sparring, as long as ground rules were established upfront on the use of Clark's powers. Clark's extraordinary muscle control made it a game between the two of them to allow him to use only that proportion of his powers that would even the playing field. It reminded Clark of the control he had to use to play football in high school, and it was a fantastic, liberating experience for him since Batman was really the only superhero that he trusted enough to know how much of his power was appropriate for a particular sparring session.

So, with a slightly maniacal chuckle, Clark reached up to detach his cape and headed to the closet where the spare sets of workout clothes were stored. "Rules?" he asked over his shoulder as he selected a pair of loose white pants, a white t-shirt and a white gi, and changed his clothes at super speed, leaving his uniform and boots neatly folded on a bench.

Bruce raised an eyebrow challengingly. "No powers at all. No matter what."

Clark groaned. Apparently, this was to be his punishment for harassing him. Clark prepared himself mentally for Bruce to mop the floor with him. There was absolutely no way that he could best Bruce without using any of his powers.

Clark picked out a staff from the weapons rack, and watched warily as Bruce did the same.

Bruce made his way to the center of the mats and took up a defensive position. Clark took a deep breath and followed him. The battle was joined.

They fought tentatively at first, and then with more vigor. Clark could see the pleasure on Bruce's face as the two of them advanced from defensive to offensive maneuvers—pleasure that was quickly banished as a mask of concentration settled over his features and a light sheen of sweat appeared on his brow. Seeing that Bruce was exerting himself perhaps too much, Clark tried to hold back a little more than usual, to pull his attack, not wanting to hurt Bruce since it was impossible for him to be one hundred percent after his recent injury, but Clark found it more and more difficult and self-destructive to do so. It was almost as if Bruce realized what he was doing and was determined to punish him for cheating, for not adhering to the spirit of the match, for babying him.

Clark wasn't exactly sure when he released the notion of going easy on Bruce, of allowing the Dark Knight to beat on him just enough for him to get the exercise he needed to keep him happy without causing any further damage, but it was likely right after a blow to the head sent Clark flying across the room and he had to look at the small self-satisfied smirk on Bruce's face as the Bat put his staff aside and obnoxiously motioned for Clark to bring his best attack hand-to-hand.

 _Can't even do a guy a favor,_ Clark thought to himself angrily, ears ringing. _Well, if it's a fight he wants—_

"No holds barred" was the tenor of this second phase of their battle, and it required of Clark the fiercest concentration just to keep up. That's why, when he managed to get the upper hand and was staring down at Bruce who was lying, winded, on his back on the mat, he felt the need to gloat.

Clark extended a hand, offering to help his opponent back to his feet. "You okay, Bruce? We can stop if, you know, you're tired," Clark tried hard to sound sincere and not let a big grin spread across his face, "or we can keep at it if you like. Don't worry. I'll make sure I don't hurt you."

And that one moment of silly cockiness, that one small, hairline fracture in his armor of concentration was all it took.

"You know, Clark—" Ice-blue eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Your _control—"_ Lightning-fast reflexes had Bruce on his feet and attacking before Clark could rally his thoughts.

"Pisses me off—"

Clark found himself on the floor, on his back with no air in his lungs to breathe, watching all the colors of the spectrum race like an enraged mob in front of his eyes. He was only vaguely aware of Bruce leaning over him, restraining his hands and sitting on his thighs like a ton of bricks.

Briefly, peevishly, Clark considered using his super-strength to knock him off.

"Don't—" Bruce warned.

Knees tightened against his sides.

"The rules—" Bruce reminded him, as if chastising a child.

So Clark proceeded to try to dislodge Bruce through normal means, but it wasn't that easy to remove 240 pounds of muscle from his midsection when Bruce had the advantage of leverage. Finally, Clark admitted to himself that he would have to _ask_ Bruce to get up, and the realization was galling in the extreme.

"Bruce—"

Clark sighed softly. Sometimes life just wasn't fair.

"Clark—" Bruce mimicked mockingly.

The plea for freedom stuck in Clark's throat. What he really wanted to do was to wipe that small smirk off of Bruce's face but, being trapped in an untenable position, all he could do was watch, mesmerized as a bead of sweat made its way slowly down Bruce's forehead and splashed, like a raindrop on his own cheek, very near the corner of his upper lip. Without thinking, Clark stuck out his tongue and captured that small drop of water, tasting the bitter saltiness. Clark froze, staring up at Bruce in embarrassment, expecting to see amusement, or curiosity, or disgust, but all he saw was a flicker of naked _lust_ pass across his friend's face. The sight was so unexpected, so remarkable, that Clark blinked, the hair on the back of his neck standing up. He felt this weird expectation that something else was about to happen. Something desired, something dreaded— _but what?_

With a dry mouth, Clark tried to brush off the sudden tension with a return to normalcy.

"Okay, you win. To the victor go the spoils." With a sick feeling, Clark realized how his comment could be interpreted. "Wait. I didn't mean—"

Bruce smiled slowly, with a dark, predatory edge. "Too late."

Bruce released his arms, staring at him with an uncomfortable intensity. Clark thought he had relented and was going to let him up, until he felt a hand on his groin, as if testing a theory, floating an idea. It was the mildest, almost tactful caress, but Clark came up like a rock against it.

The Dark Knight's grin only widened.

Time fractured. A lifetime passed for Clark in one faint exhalation of breath as Bruce trailed a finger across his cheekbone, down behind his ear, as he buried both hands in his hair before capturing his mouth for a kiss that was as deep as it was dizzying. "Clark," Bruce breathed, moving from lips to ear, voice like the thread of a melody, spare and sonorous. _"Clark."_

Clark shuddered once at the sound of his name, then again, before every inhibition, every bit of reason, was swept away on a riptide of pure lust, unmitigated _want,_ leaving him frantic and hungry, with a dark, devouring passion consuming him as their mouths locked again, feverishly, and their tongues entwined.

Two bodies, perfectly matched, wrapped themselves around each other, erections trapped and straining in between. Hands grabbed and kneaded until the only things that existed were their abandon and fervor, each for the other. Bruce had a hand in Clark's hair, grabbing, trying to bring him closer, trying to suck the soul out of his mouth. Clark struggled to maintain his crumbling control as everything in the training room faded eerily into the background. The whole of Clark's existence shrank into an oasis of himself and Bruce and the nonexistent distance between their bodies; all Clark could see were eyes the color of the sky on a cold winter's day, all he could feel was the indescribable, heart-stopping sensation of Bruce on top of him, pressing him into the mat, pressing, their bodies rock hard and a perfect fit.

A spasm as huge as the Watchtower shook Clark to his roots. He shouted, arching against Bruce, smothered in him, even as the lights exploded behind his eyes, frantically, gaspingly trying to take Bruce with him over the edge.

When sense returned, along with trepidation and a heaping dose of embarrassment, Clark was completely unsure whether he had succeeded.

Bruce leveraged himself up, balancing his weight on his knees, preparing to get to his feet. His face was blank, inscrutable, and all Clark could do was lay on his back, stunned.

"This was a mistake," Bruce said, but his eyes said otherwise. He paused, leaned over Clark once again. "Get up," he whispered. "We have to go." A hand to his hair, and with breathtaking fierceness, another kiss. Then he was gone.

"Go ahead," Clark said softly to the empty room. "I'll…catch up."

A short time later, Clark sat on the bed in the darkness of his room at the Watchtower, hands trembling with a kind of disbelief, afraid to move, to breath, not wanting to waken from what had to be a dream. For the first time in his life, true desire had sunk its teeth into him, and Clark could not deny the colossal rush.


	4. Chapter 4

**4—**

 _Thirteen days ago . . . at LexCorp headquarters in Metropolis . . ._

"GET ME SOMEONE FROM TECH SUPPORT!!!" Lex Luthor bellowed, causing his secretary who was sitting outside of his office to jump violently. _"RIGHT NOW!!!"_

His temper had settled into an icy displeasure by the time the technician from the support department arrived. Lex turned a baleful eye on him, dourly noting his youth, sloppy attire and the fact that he seemed to be chewing gum.

"What can I do you for, Mr. Luthor?"

Lex swiveled his computer screen in the kid's direction. "My computer system seems to have a virus of some sort. Look for yourself."

"Wow," the kid stated as he stared at the hard-core porn that had taken over the entirety of his boss' screen like a screen saver.

"Did you download—?"

"No, I did _not."_

"Okay, well, let me—" He made a vague gesture, seeking better access to the computer.

"Be my guest."

Lex watched as the kid spent some time booting and re-booting the system, and then running a series of diagnostic tests.

"Hmm. That's weird."

"What?"

"It seems your computer is being remotely controlled by someone in server room 8, but that's impossible. Even if someone were in the server room without authorization, there should be no way to access your computer through the firewall without setting off all kinds of bells and whistles. Plus they would need to know your login and password. Maybe it's a prank of some sort. You didn't piss anyone off lately?" When Lex just stared at him, the kid shrugged and popped his gum, "No? Well, anyway, there's nothing I can do from up here. I'll head down there and check it out." He jumped up from the desk and headed for the office door.

"I'm going with you."

The kid stopped abruptly. "You are?"

"Yes. I want to be the first one to talk to whoever is responsible for this practical joke." Lex Luthor scowled darkly. "Believe it or not, my time is valuable. Anyone who thinks they can waste my time with impunity will soon be having a very bad day."

"Okay, whatever, man . . . Sir . . . I mean, Mr. Luthor."

Lex followed the kid to underground level two where most of the main system rooms where located. The kid checked in with his supervisor, acquired the proper access codes and led his boss to a nondescript door with a number eight on it. Entering the room, it was quite obvious that the room was empty. There was no mysterious practical joker hiding out and mucking up computer systems.

"No one here," the kid said, "but let's see if we can identify the problem."

He sat down in front of a multi-screen display and started typing. A few minutes later, he stopped. "Hmm."

"What is it now?"

"There's a message here for you, or really a package. It seems to require your identity scan."

"What?"

"To open it. It says, _For Lex Luthor's Eyes Only._ See?" He hit a button and pointed at the screen.

Lex's eyes were riveted on the screen, but not because of the message, the words that appeared so neatly, but because of the symbol that accompanied the words—three circles in the shape of a triangle…Brainiac.

"You can go now," he said to the kid.

"What?"

"I can take it from here."

The kid shrugged a shoulder. "Your company."

"That's right, it is."

Lex sat down in the chair in front of the screens. He briefly considered doing nothing, but he had never been one to bury his head in the sand. He put his thumb to the print reader and entered his login and password. Immediately, the displays changed to a two-dimensional picture of Brainiac, spread across all three screens.

"Brainiac!"

The computerized voice, exactly the same as when Brainiac was in its android body, acknowledged him impassively.

"Lex Luthor."

The voice raised the hairs on the back of his neck. Brainiac was supposed to be dead! Couldn't Superman do anything right?!

"How did you—?"

"When you allied yourself with Kal-El to destroy me and my ship, I had enough time to download a binary version of myself into the LexCorp computer system through a back door in the channel you created to download my databanks. It has taken this long for me to reconstitute my memory banks, but, now, I am ready."

 _"Ready?_ Ready for what?"

"To be reborn."

 _"What?!"_

"I require your assistance in creating a new body, and transferring my intelligence into it."

"And why in the world would I do something like that?" Lex asked, voice cold.

The computer's response was equally dispassionate. "You have no choice, Lex Luthor. I am in control of LexCorp." The lights flickered and went out. All machinery other than the computer screens went dead. All other screens in the room, and Luthor suspected in the building, that were not displaying the Brainiac interface displayed the Brainiac symbol.

"What the—"

"All of your systems, every project, every piece of information, every account is now controlled by me. If you ever again want to be the billionaire mogul you were before today, you will cooperate."

Lex weighed his options. "What do you want me to do?"

Brainiac explained what it needed, not the least of which was access to Superman's Kryptonian computer that was located in the alien's hidden fortress. As Brainiac explained the functionality of the computer and how it was imperative to use it to assist in the transfer of his consciousness from the LexCorp system to Brainiac's new host, Lex was fascinated by the possibilities.

"And your new body?"

"The Kryptonian computer has the ability to make a perfect replica of my prior one."

Lex raised an eyebrow skeptically. "Even if we do find out the location of this compound, I assume Superman has some sort of security system, some way of preventing access to the computer. And, of course, it's not like Superman will simply make us tea while we storm the fortress and build you a body. We will have to deal with him." Lex paused. "That has proven to be something of a problem in the past."

"However, now you have the benefit of my input."

Lex's grin spread slowly. "Yes. Tell me more about this Kryptonian computer."

Brainiac elaborated on the computer's functionality as Lex listened.

"It is imperative," Brainiac said, "for you to figure out a way to secure Kal-El's cooperation. The computer is keyed to his DNA. He has to have a reason to activate it in our presence in order for me to take control of it."

Lex continued the thought. "We would also have to figure out a way to incapacitate him once we have access to the computer. Any ideas?"

Brainiac paused, seeming to check its memory banks. "The Kryptonian computer can incapacitate Kal-El. It has the ability to drain his powers, alter his DNA, make him human."

Lex was shocked speechless at the thought of a powerless, _human,_ Superman.

"However, the computer is a living thing. It, too, has a consciousness, and it was programmed by Jor-El to be utterly loyal to his son. In order for the computer to drain his powers, Kal-El would have to make the request."

"He would have to _request_ to be made human?" Lex asked, voice incredulous. "A lot of good that does us."

"You merely have to find a weakness that can be exploited, Lex Luthor. Kal-El has his Kryptonian legacy but he was raised on Earth. His weakness is that he cares for you humans. I have also noticed that you, Lex Luthor, can be quite ingenious when motivated. I leave the details of the plan to you."

"Thanks," Lex responded, with only a tinge of his usual sarcasm.

"You have two weeks."

 _"Two weeks?!"_

"Two weeks, Lex Luthor. I find residing in this system to be too confining. I want the freedom of my new body as soon as possible. If, at the end of two weeks, our arrangement is not concluded, I will start dismantling your company piece-by-piece."

"Fine," Lex snarled, "but I will need access to the archived surveillance database, my personal database on Superman and the Justice League and access to my bank accounts. This type of operation will take money. Lots of money."

"Of course, and I will be available if you need any further information."

"Great. Oh, and could you turn on the lights?"

Lex exited the server room and headed back up to his office. On the way he deferred all questions from a panicked staff on the state of the computer systems. His computer screen displayed the triangle logo but allowed him to perform basic functions in line with his agreement with Brainiac. His first order of business was calling his vice presidents, telling them to close down operations and furlough the workforce for at least a week while he arranged for the restoration of systems. Next he called the IT manager and sent the entire tech staff home, explaining that he was going to bring in a team of specialists from overseas to find the problem and reconfigure all of LexCorp's systems. Last, he placed phone calls to certain key clients, most particularly the Joint Chiefs, who were expecting project updates within the next month and explained the situation, pushing back production schedules to accommodate this new set of circumstances.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Lex finally had a moment to assess his position. Brainiac was only a computer program, no matter how high its ambitions; it knew nothing about the motivations and ambitions of _men._ The bucket of bolts thought it could turn _him,_ Lex Luthor, into a pawn to be used as it saw fit, to hold his company hostage, but it had already made a fatal mistake. Information. Lex now had all the information he needed to free himself of Brainiac and Superman in one masterstroke. All he had to do now was work out the details.

Lex spent hours searching for the proper target, hours looking at surveillance footage of Justice League encounters covering years, tapping a finger on a computer key and flipping through newspaper photos showing Superman rescuing Lois Lane: Superman swooping in and saving her from a burning building, from a near-fatal fall from a skyscraper, from a car crash, from a maniacal crook. He spent a shorter amount of time considering Jimmy Olsen, the photographer from the _Planet,_ but then discarded him completely as an unremarkable choice. Even Lois Lane, to an extent, was a less than ideal target because she did not hold the alien's _trust._ Lex knew that for his plan to work, he needed to get under Superman's defenses quickly, and while, given unlimited time, Lois Lane could be a better choice than most, it was a fact that she seemed to serve mostly as an outlet for Superman's empathy, an object that needed saving more often than not, an ideal on a pedestal. Superman and Lois Lane might be lovers but they weren't friends. There was no _parity_ in the relationship…

Seemingly of its own accord, his finger paused in its tapping on the keyboard, and the cycling photos stopped on a picture of Superman and Batman receiving a commendation from the Mayor of Metropolis. The photo caught his attention because, while the Mayor was looking at Batman and Batman was looking at the Mayor, shaking his hand, Superman was looking at Batman. He was grinning like a schoolboy and looking at Batman with so much _pride._ Lex raised an eyebrow, considering, and started flipping backwards through the archive, stopping at a picture of Superman extending a hand to Batman, helping him up from the ground; at a picture of Batman and Superman standing back-to-back, facing all-comers; at Superman and Batman caught on film actually grinning at each other in relief.

Lex moved to the video files. He pulled the file of Superman's recent funeral, and remembered that Batman was noticeable for his absence. He went back a year or more and focused on the League's run in with Vandal Savage, and the way Superman rushed to hug Gotham's Dark Knight, spontaneously, like a long-lost brother, and that Batman allowed the embrace….

He made a decision.

He went to the phone to arrange a test for his theory and dialed.

"Leslie. Lex Luthor. I have a job for you, my dear. Expedited schedule."

He briefly listened to her concerns. "Don't give me that. You owe me."

And addressed the only one that really mattered. "Yes. Yes. Yes. You'll be compensated accordingly."

He had her agreement—which was never really in doubt since he had been the one to pay for all of her medical expenses after her last run-in with Superman. "Now, meet Mercy at the LexCorp towers construction site in downtown Metropolis. There are special instructions for this job. Mercy will give you the details.

"And, Leslie," a small, tight, half-smile, "bring some friends."

+

 _Later that day . . . in downtown Metropolis, in front of a popular shopping mall . . ._

"This is Valerie Gilbert, reporting live from in front of the Metropolis Galleria, where notorious super-villains Livewire, Weather Wizard and Metallo, also known as the **Superman Revenge Squad,** have taken a whole city block hostage—" She stumbled as her cameraman ducked to avoid some falling debris and bumped into her. She got her bearings and soldiered on. "Wait! The Justice League has just arrived on the scene!"

Livewire yelled, "Come on, Super Jerk, we've been waiting for you!" Superman went straight for her.

He could hear Batman's directions on his communicator. "J'onn and Diana," the Bat said, "take care of Metallo. Flash, you're with me."

"Got it," he heard them respond, and then turned his full attention to the girl who seemed to believe that he was responsible for all her problems.

The battle was heavily in the Justice League's favor, even without Green Lantern and Hawkgirl, since they had the _Superman Revenge Squad_ outnumbered five to three. Even so, Metallo managed to evade J'onn and Diana and get close enough so that his Kryptonite core rendered him weak and nauseous and at Livewire's mercy. It was Batman who saved him this time, swooping in and spiriting him away from danger, using nothing more than pure adrenaline and the grace of long years spent training the body to match the will.

With his power returning, Superman noted with satisfaction that Diana and J'onn had Metallo boxed in and were preparing for the take down. Batman was calmly issuing orders over the comm, his deep, even tone a balm in the midst of a conflagration. Livewire was comatose at the bottom of a pile of garbage cans, and Batman and Flash were converging on Weather Wizard. The super-villain had his wand raised, and Superman could see the tornado he was forming overhead. Such a dangerous weather phenomenon would devastate Metropolis if it were allowed to land. Superman knew what he had to do.

He flew into the eye of the storm, faster, faster, until the tornado was merely an extension of his torque, and flew up, disbursing the tornado into the upper atmosphere. Satisfied, he headed back down to the confrontation site.

Descending, he saw three things happen in slow motion, in a neat and tasteful choreography.

He saw Batman and Flash subdue Weather Wizard, knocking his wand out of his hand and tying him up. With his super-hearing he heard Flash start in on his usual routine since all the bad guys were _toast,_ kidding and joking and acting the fool, all his attention on teasing Batman, and heard Batman admonish him to be serious. Last, he saw Livewire rise up like a phantom, with her pasty white skin and shock-jock hair, shooting a bolt of pure malicious energy at Flash's back. He watched in horror as Batman pushed the red-clad superhero out of the way at his own expense.

 _"No!"_ Superman yelled. He was at Batman's side in an instant, but it was too late.

Superman used his senses to scan his teammate. The electricity had stopped his heart, he wasn't breathing.

Time froze, then picked up in slow motion. Every movement seemed covered in molasses. He looked down at his best friend, the man who had, not ten minutes before, saved his own life. He couldn't imagine, didn't want to imagine, a world without him.

"No…" he whispered. It wasn't going to end this way.

He started CPR, breathing, in and out, and pounding on Batman's chest. Listened. Time and again, he listened and heard nothing, no heartbeat, no breathing, nothing. The whole of the world narrowed to the head of a pin and then fractured, splintered and shattered into mirrored bits. _"No!"_ he yelled. Tears filled his eyes. A sob swelled in his throat. Wrong. _It was all so wrong._ He refused to let it end _this_ way.

With his super-speed he was at Livewire's prone body, lifted her, dumped her at Batman's side and slapped her face, hard, until she woke up. Then he grabbed her hand and placed it on Bruce's chest.

The body dressed as a Bat jerked, and then lay still. Superman did it again, and again, until he heard the sweet sound of a stuttering but beating heart.

Superman realized Flash was also at his side.

"He's back," Flash said, putting a hand to Batman's wrist, under the glove, "but his pulse is erratic—"

"Don't—" he said, knocking Flash's hand away.

Quickly, he scooped Bruce up, hugged him— _hugged him_ —so close to his chest, and flew, faster than a speeding bullet, faster than sound, than light. Took Bruce to the one place he knew he could get immediate, life-stabilizing treatment without fear for his identity—to the Watchtower.

It was only after Superman left with Batman that the police and emergency assistance personnel arrived on the scene. The other Leaguers had their hands full helping civilians trapped in the surrounding rubble, but when they went to collect the parties responsible for the day's events, they found that Livewire, Metallo and Weather Wizard had escaped their restraints and seemed to have vanished like smoke.

+

 _That evening, . . .in the infirmary at Justice League headquarters . . ._

The monitors sounded a reassuring rhythm. Clark stood at Bruce's bedside, frustrated because he was forced to leave that stupid cowl on his face. He knew Bruce would kill him if he let this incident spoil all the pains he had taken to hide his identity, even from his teammates, but cursing his inability to see the entirety of the man's face, to have an unrestricted view of his eyes when they opened.

He didn't have to turn around to know that Flash had entered the room. In fact, he refused to. Acknowledging Flash was the last thing he wanted to do.

Typical of him, Flash sidled over to the bedside and tried to ease the tension. "Hey, Big Guy," he said. "That was some mighty fast flying. I didn't know you could fly fast enough to get someone to the Watchtower before they suffocated."

"I can do a lot of things that I don't do."

"Yeah, but how—"

There was no reason not to explain. "There's an aura around my body," Clark said. "You can't see it but it's part of the reason why so many things can't hurt me, and it protects my uniform most of the time. Sometimes I can extend it out to protect things close to me."

"But how—"

Clark sighed. "I held him close, and extended myself around him, and flew very fast."

"That's why—"

"Yes."

 _"Cool."_

"Flash," _go away,_ "did you want something?"

"Just wanted to check on Bats. Is there anything I can do?"

"Don't you think you've done enough?" Clark asked. He could not hide the bitterness.

The Flash became so agitated he seemed to _vibrate_ with distress. "I'm sorry!" he said, distraught. "I didn't realize—"

"No, Flash, you didn't _realize,"_ Clark accused, turning on him. "You're always playing around! Everything is one big game to you! He's the only one out there without powers, Flash! You know this!"

Flash was silent, with his head down. He offered no excuse. "You know I didn't mean for him to get hurt," he said, hesitantly.

Clark's tone was ashes. "All I know is that he'd be fine right now if it wasn't for you." He turned back to Bruce, placed a hand on the sheet covering his chest.

"I've put a lot of trust in you, Flash. We all have. I hope we haven't made a mistake. If anything happens to him—" _I don't know what I would do._

 _"I'm sorry,"_ Flash said again, head hung low. "I don't know what else to say." He shuffled slowly, dejectedly, out of the room.

"Clark."

Clark jumped to hear the deep voice that he knew so well saying his name. The relief he felt—it made him dizzy, lightheaded. Bruce was awake. He sat—almost fell—down in the chair next to the bed, placed a comforting hand on his friend's arm and whispered his name softly, _Bruce,_ like a prayer.

"Leave the kid alone."

"But—"

"It wasn't his fault, and I don't need you arguing with him on my behalf."

Clark objected quietly. "Bruce, you died. You were dead."

"Seems I'm not now," he said, at his most dispassionate. "Get over it."


	5. Chapter 5

**5—**

 _Four days ago . . . at the Fortress of Solitude . . ._

"Just do it," Clark breathed, his voice dark with anticipation, fueled by their passion, a passion that teetered between tenderness and spiteful torment of each other. Never had Clark dreamed of a lover so diligent, so accommodating, and yet so difficult to manage. "Don't worry. You can't hurt me."

His statement produced a pause, not exactly the response Clark was expecting. Realizing that something was wrong, Clark rolled over onto his back, stared up into eyes of translucent stillness.

"Maybe I want to hurt you," Bruce said, reaching out and tucking a lock of hair behind Clark's ear. "Maybe I want to be the only one who can hurt you."

There was nothing for Clark to say. He could be nothing other than himself, the last Kryptonian, Kal-El, Superman, and yet he understood enough of Bruce's frustration to lift his hands and bury them in his lover's short hair, pulling his head down and drenching his lips in long, passionate kisses.

"Bruce—"

Bruce placed a soft fingertip to his lips, silencing him. "It's not you, Clark. You're perfect. Fucking beautiful. _So fucking beautiful—"_ His voice hitched and he paused. "I just wish you could let go, that I could do for you what you've done for me…."

How many hungry kisses passed between them? How many caresses? How many times with gentleness and sweetness, but with the tacit _control_ that was a necessary part of his existence, did Clark make his love for Bruce _felt._ Every tender touch, every startled gasp, every heated press was suffused with such a passion for the man that every other feeling Clark had ever known paled in comparison. Somehow, in no time at all, Bruce had replaced the sun, replaced the fire that set the core of him aflame, and Clark realized he was willing to promise him _anything_ just to bathe in the warmth of his affection.

 _"Bruce—"_

Bruce shifted his grip on Clark so he held him on his stomach, stretched taunt. The whole world narrowed to the damp slide of skin over skin, the unbearable vulnerability and the fierce, hot joy of possession. Of Bruce shooting his whole being into Clark's trembling body. Silently, Clark yielded to him, and received him, until they spent their passion in panting exhalations, unselfconscious grunts and high, clear cries.

For a time, the only sound in the air was the sound of slowing breaths. Then, Bruce turned Clark over and laid his head on his chest. With his feelings strange and heightened, Clark realized there was something he could do for Bruce that could, perhaps, change the dynamic between them in new and more pleasing ways. At least, it was worth some investigating.

Bruce was draped like a cloak over his body, bonelessly melded to his every contour. "Okay," Clark said, giving him an experimental push, "you're going to have to move."

Bruce moved not an inch. "Why?"

"First, you're sort of smothering me. Second, we need to get up."

A hand moved languorously down his flank. "No, we don't. Let someone else save the world tonight."

"It's not that. I have something I want to show you."

Bruce raised his head, eyebrow cocked.

"You wanted to play with the Fortress computer, right? See what it could do? Well, I have an idea…."

+

 _Meanwhile . . . in Gotham City . . ._

It was preternaturally quiet on this late evening in the city of Gotham, and the Dark Knight sat at his computer in the Batcave, tense, restive, worried that there was something he was missing. He pulled up various pieces of information on his computer screen – heightened super-villain activity all over Metropolis, suspiciously coordinated; dead spots in Watchtower surveillance; Superman acting strangely; J'onn absent more often than usual – and arranged each piece to his liking, highlighting connections, some obvious, some remote. He would readily admit that he had a tendency towards paranoia, but it was his sixth sense that had kept him alive more often than not, and he was not about to start discounting it at this stage of the game. He leaned back in his chair, thinking.

"Coffee, sir?"

As he had so many times in the past, Bruce thanked God for Alfred. The man had an uncanny way of knowing just what he needed.

"Thanks, Alfred."

"Will Master Tim be home this evening?"

"At some point, I'm sure. He has the run of the town with Dick. I promised not to bother them." He glanced again at the compelling flowchart on his computer screen. "Anyway, should be a slow night for me. I'll be upstairs shortly. I think I'd like to take a swim before I go to bed."

"Very good, sir."

Bruce watched as Alfred made his way out of the Batcave. It was shaping up to be a slow night. He pulled up the Gotham City grid and noted Robin and Nightwing's GPS tracker that indicated they were stationary down by the theater district. Seemed like a slow night all around. Now, if only Barbara would call, he would go for that swim....

The phone system beeped.

"Go ahead."

"Batman. I have that information you wanted."

Bruce waited for Barbara to explain.

"You were right. It seems that LexCorp has been developing some type of weaponized nanotechnology for the government. The project is classified and details were scarce, but my sources tell me that the project falls under the psychological warfare division. However, it seems the project, and all other LexCorp projects actually, have been put on hold. Word on the street is they're having major problems with their computer systems; major problems—not just a downed server or two. The rumors and the halt in production have started to affect LexCorp's stock. Meanwhile, the man himself has kept a rather low profile around Metropolis the last few weeks but check this out," Bruce hit a key on his computer to accept the packet of information Barbara sent over, "his bodyguard, Mercy, was caught on this video feed meeting with Livewire, the same day she attacked the Metropolis Galleria."

Bruce growled, "Some coincidence."

"Exactly."

"Thanks, Barbara."

Barbara signed off, and Bruce added her information to the mounting pile of evidence and speculation. Something had become clear to him, however. Clark was in danger. Anything that involved Lex Luthor endangered Clark by definition. Luthor's obsession with Superman was only rivaled by Joker's obsession with the Bat, however Bruce knew he had enough common sense to never have developed a soft spot for his most hated nemesis.

The Boy Scout was not that smart.

He put in a call to the Watchtower. Diana was on duty.

"Diana."

"Problem, Batman?"

"No, I was just trying to reach Superman."

"Sorry, but he's not here."

"Did he say where he would be?"

"He's at the Fortress. He said to call him there if anything came up."

"Thanks."

"He does have watch duty tomorrow morning," Diana offered.

Bruce grunted and signed off. He briefly considered calling over to the Fortress but thought better of it. It was late, and Clark usually went to the Fortress to be alone. Bruce was hesitant to disturb him when all he had so far was speculation, particularly since Clark would be at the Watchtower in the morning.

He finished his coffee, flexed his fingers and got down to work. Looked like his swim would have to wait.


	6. Chapter 6

**6—**

 _Twelve days ago . . . at a secret Luthor hideout in Metropolis . . ._

"What are we doing here, Luthor?"

"You're here because I am paying you to be here," Lex said, disdainfully. "Now shut up and listen. I'm more than happy to explain."

Livewire, Metallo, Weather Wizard, Gorilla Grodd and Doctor Destiny sat around a conference room table at one of Lex's secret hideouts in Metropolis. The billionaire himself was sitting at the head of the table with a projector screen at his back, ready to initiate phase two of his master plan.

"We all want the same thing," he began, "an end to Superman and the Justice League. Well, recently I've made contact with an artificial life form that hails from Superman's home planet of Krypton."

"I thought Krypton was destroyed," Grodd interjected in a bored voice.

"That's right," Lex agreed, "but if you stop interrupting me, I'll explain.

"This artificial life form is called _Brainiac._ It is a sentient computer that once had the task of controlling all systems on Krypton before it exploded. Before the world was destroyed, Brainiac managed to launch himself into space in an android body, eventually arriving on Earth much in the same way as Superman did."

"What in the _world_ does this history lesson have to do with the plan to kill Superman? My time is valuable. Please just cut to the punch line," Grodd growled.

Lex glared at the gorilla in disgust. "I am now in control of the Brainiac computer," he announced. "After working with it, I have discovered the best way to neutralize Superman and the Justice League."

"Do tell." Grodd sighed.

"Superman has a Kryptonian computer that is his legacy from his home planet. The computer is hidden in a compound somewhere on Earth. This computer is a living computer, like Brainiac, and is keyed to Superman's DNA. This computer has the ability to render Superman powerless by exposing him to radiation that can alter his DNA, making him completely human. That is our goal."

"It will make Super Jerk human?" Livewire cackled at the thought. "Let’s _do_ it!"

"Not so fast," Lex cautioned, "It's not that simple. After all, we don't even know where this fortress is."

"So what do you propose?" Grodd asked, his voice only slightly less bored than it was at the start of the conversation.

"The plan has three phases and three teams," Lex explained. "Phase one is already complete. An absent member of our team, Clayface, has assumed the identity of Doctor Destiny in Striker's Prison, freeing him to further our ends." The masked, cloaked figure of Doctor Destiny merely nodded his head, almost imperceptively.

"Team two consists of Livewire, Weather Wizard and Metallo. Your job, which you have already begun so commendably, is to occupy the Justice League. It is crucial to our plans that all League members stay on high alert. It means they will all remain close to their headquarters, enabling the completion of phase three."

Lex pressed a button on the table console, and headshots of the seven members of the Justice League appeared on the screen behind him. Four photos collapsed and disappeared until only three photos remained. "Superman, Batman and the Martian," Lex said, pointing. "They are the targets of phase three. Grodd, you and Destiny, with the help of special nanites that were developed by LexCorp and that, when injected, will simulate a permanent waking sleep state in the subject, will gain control of the Martian. The Martian is a shapeshifter and a telepath. We will use him to impersonate Batman, gain Superman's _trust._

"The rest," he said, smirking, passing around paper dossiers on the Justice Leaguers as diagrams and objectives and assignments for all the involved parties appeared on the screen behind him, "is simply academic."

+

 _Later that same day . . . at an abandoned research facility on the outskirts of Metropolis . . ._

J'onn used his shape-shifting ability to neutralize Metallo, coiling himself around the maniacal super-villain until Diana could cause a building to fall on his head. Two times in two days, J'onn mused. This so-called _Superman Revenge Squad_ was certainly very active, but this time, they wouldn't escape justice. He saw Livewire elude Superman and fly down an alley to his right. "I'll get her," he called out, freeing Superman and Diana to try and contain Weather Wizard, who had created a blizzard to provide cover to fight.

J'onn flew after Livewire.

He was surprised when he found the alley empty. He searched for her, flying to the end of the alley and up. It wasn't normal for a super-villain to disappear before either attaining his or her goal or suffering complete defeat. Super-villains were extreme in that way. Experience told him that Livewire was in the area, somewhere. He used his telepathy to scan the surrounding buildings.

Yelping involuntarily, J'onn slapped at the back of his neck with his free hand in alarm. He felt a burning sensation, like being bitten by ten dozen mosquitoes all at once. His arms! They started jerking—he could not control his limbs. He started failing from the sky; saw the ground rush up to meet him. Then a blaze of light flooded J'onn's brain and blew the husks of his vision away.

When he awoke, he was in the infirmary at the tower with Diana leaning over him, explaining that Livewire had somehow knocked him unconscious, and that the _Superman Revenge Squad_ had managed to evade capture yet again.


	7. Chapter 7

**7—**

 _Nine days ago . . . at Justice League headquarters . . ._

The first time it happened, Clark's hands trembled with a kind of disbelief that Batman— _Bruce_ —would allow it. It was easier the second time. There were none of the awkward pauses, the wondering what to do next, how to start. There was only time to _respond_ to a seduction just like the man—forceful, purposeful. At times, mostly when they were alone, the current between them was so strong. Clark understood what it was like to be a paper clip in the presence of a very strong magnet. Over the past few days, when they were in the presence of their teammates, it had become almost impossible for Clark to be in Bruce's vicinity and not want to take the man into his arms. Bruce, on the other hand, seemed perfectly happy with a hot and cold relationship, treating him like nothing had ever happened between them while in front of other people and presenting a completely different aspect the few times they had been alone together.

Clark sat in the chair in the crow's nest on watch duty, idly studying a star map of the planetary system surrounding Apokolips, just in case such knowledge ever came in handy. He wondered, in the back of his head, whether it wouldn't be simpler to just ask Bruce to explain what was going on between them. There was something to be said about the direct approach, about not sitting around with his stomach in knots, wondering when would be the next time he would have the pleasure of seeing the amorous side of the Bat.

The door to the elevator opened, and the topic of his idle speculation stalked in his direction.

"Batman," he acknowledged, mouth suddenly as dry as the desert.

"Superman," the Dark Knight responded, settling at his right side and folding his arms across his chest.

Clark paused, looking up at the profile of the costumed crusader who was standing at the side of his chair so nonchalantly. He expected the Bat to say…something, but all Batman did was stare, first at him, and then out of the observation window.

Perplexed, Clark swiveled his chair so he, too, had a view of the planet outside the window. There was nothing unusual out there. He turned back to his teammate. "Something wrong?" he asked.

"No."

Silence. A span of heartbeats. Clark thought if the silence went on much longer he'd pull his hair out. He tried a different approach.

"Uh, Batman. Did you…want something?"

That produced a reaction, as Batman turned, and Clark again felt what it was like to be the object of the Dark Knight's intense regard.

"I thought you might like some company," he said, voice impassive, and, like many times in their long association, Clark cursed the cowl that blocked sight of Bruce's eyes. It was impossible to tell whether or not the man was joking.

"You thought I might like some company?" Clark repeated slowly, not quite understanding.

"That's what I said."

"Since when?"

"Since about ten minutes ago."

"Bruce," now Clark was exasperated, "you know that's not what I meant. Since when have you been concerned about keeping me company?"

"Since…oh," Batman checked his watch, "about two days, six hours and forty-seven minutes ago." He took the opportunity to step between Clark's legs and rest a gloved hand on his shoulder.

"Be serious."

The hand moved from Clark's shoulder, to his neck, swiped his earlobe and continued up until leather-clad fingers threaded themselves in his hair, massaging his scalp gently.

"I am serious."

"Bruce," Clark whispered as a frisson of excitement made its way down his spine, "this is crazy. _You're_ crazy. What in the hell are we doing?"

"I would think that was obvious."

Then, amazingly, the Gotham Knight knelt between his legs, hands resting on his thighs It was like the quiet before a thunderstorm between his knees, and although he couldn't see his eyes, Clark knew Bruce was staring at his mouth, hungrily.

Bruce licked his lips and leaned just a bit closer, saying, "This has been building for a long time, Clark, a long time. Admit it."

"Yes, but—" His objections were silenced as the storm broke and Bruce captured his mouth, all fierce and demanding. When he broke the kiss, Clark could only groan softly, every objection, every desire to define the situation forgotten.

"I've always wondered something about you, Clark," Bruce said, voice so deep it was practically a rumble. "What you taste like. What you sound like. Since I first realized you were so much more than a pretty boy in tights. I decided I wanted to find out."

Dizzying amazement was the only reaction Clark could produce as Bruce kissed him, devoured his mouth, pulled his gloves off and dropped them like gauntlets to the floor. A small voice in the back of Clark's head was pleading with any higher power that would listen for them not to be disturbed, to prevent any other Leaguer from deciding it would be a good idea to check out the control room, because Bruce's hands were at his belt, loosening it, and he roughly jerked Clark's uniform down just enough so that the weeping head of his cock was visible. Bruce lowered his head and swallowed Clark whole.

The universe outside—it felt as if he were part of the universe, stars streaming, exploding in front of his eyes as he watched the cowl and those ridiculous ears bob up and down between his legs. The visual stimulus, coupled with the incredible feelings produced by a mouth that seemed to know exactly what he liked, ensured Clark couldn't last long. He exploded into a mouth that sucked, and sucked, and sucked until he had nothing left. Only then did Bruce raise his head, that smug half smile on his masked face that drove Clark crazy, and use a finger to wipe a drop of fluid from the corner of his mouth. Leaning in, he kissed Clark once, twice, three times, letting him taste his own essence. Then, he pulled back, swiped his gloves off the floor and stood up.

"You better get yourself together, Clark," he said, conspiratorially, as he fitted his fingers into his gloves and headed towards the elevator. "You might scare the children."

+

 _Later that same day . . . at Justice League headquarters . . ._

He had to admit that completing his tour on watch duty had been…an exercise in restraint. After Bruce had left, all Clark could do was think of him, and what they could do together, what they had already done. Staring at the stars, so like his eyes, did nothing for Clark's peace of mind when all he wanted to do was run off and find his infuriating, non-communicative teammate and sit on him until they properly defined the boundaries of their wildly escalating relationship.

But right now he was hungry. He headed towards the cafeteria to satisfy a more immediate need.

Flash, J'onn and Hawkgirl were sitting at a table, amicably chatting and sharing each other's company over dinner. He waved and moved toward the service counter, trying to remember whose responsibility it had been to handle the food this month since that often determined whether Clark was happy or disappointed at the selection. Seeing a wide array of fast food lining the counter, Clark realized it was Flash's turn on kitchen duty. He loaded up his plate and started towards his teammates. It was then that he noticed Batman enter the room.

Changing his trajectory, Clark moved to intercept.

"Batman," he said.

"Superman."

"Getting dinner?"

"This _is_ the cafeteria."

"Want to join me?" Batman's hands were resting at his side. Clark reached out with one of his own, to sweep it along the side of his hand, an intimate but subtle invitation. Batman jerked his hand back as if he'd been burned.

"I'm working," Batman said. "I only came down to grab a sandwich."

He turned, gathered the food he wanted and exited the room without a second glance. All Clark could do was mutter, _hot and cold,_ under his breath in exasperation, wondering what was going through the Bat's head. It wasn't as if anyone would care if the two of them ate at the same table, talked a little. Okay, J'onn was staring in his direction, but he had been standing in place for an inordinate amount of time. He sighed and headed towards his teammates, promising himself that the next time Batman accosted him, he'd insist they talked _first._

+

 _Meanwhile . . . in a secret hideout in Metropolis . . ._

Livewire was playing with a bolt of electricity, bouncing it up and down on her hand. "What's next, boss?" she asked.

Lex Luthor folded his suit jacket over an arm. "Find another target," he said. "We have to keep the Justice League on their toes."

"How much longer are we gonna have to do this? My guys are getting restless. When are we gonna be able to just kill Super Jerk and his whole crew?"

"Soon, my dear," Lex assured her. "Very soon."

He picked up his briefcase and headed for the door. "But right now I need you to create another diversion. Do a good job and I promise you, Superman will get exactly what he deserves."


	8. Chapter 8

**8—**

 _Three days ago, in the evening . . . at the Fortress of Solitude . . ._

Right before he touched the computer interface to initiate the process, Bruce came up behind him, grabbed him by the arm and turned him around.

"Wait."

Clark cracked a smile, placing a reassuring hand over the gloved one that was tightly gripping his forearm. "I thought I was the one who was supposed to get cold feet."

But Bruce was all seriousness and sharp Dark Knight edges, even though his cowl was down around his neck and his bright blue eyes were visible. He didn't allow Clark's banter to lighten his mood.

"You don't have to do this," Bruce said. "You don't have to do this for me."

Confused, Clark raised a hand, compelled, almost, to smooth the concerned frown from the face he had come to idolize. "I'm not doing it for you; I'm doing it for me." He tried to explain. "I want to know what it feels like for everything to be in proportion for a change." He placed a hand over Bruce's heart. "If I listen, I can hear your heartbeat as loud as a drum. If I look, I can see right through you. If I'm not careful, if I don't keep every reaction, every emotion, in perfect control, I could kill you with the touch of my hands, a random gaze, or a whisper." Clark dropped his hand. "I want to know what it feels like to be just like you, to feel everything the way you do. I want us to be more similar than different for a change."

With a reluctant sigh, Bruce seemed to relent, but Clark supposed it was his ever-present paranoia that made him voice one last objection, even though Clark knew Bruce wanted this as much as he did. "But what if something goes wrong?" Bruce said in his low voice, the impassive voice that he used to present facts bereft of emotion, to act like he didn't care. "Maybe we should wait—"

Clark interrupted, shrugging a shoulder. "Why wait?" he asked in his most reasonable voice. "We figured out that the computer could do it. I'm the only possible test subject. What difference would it make if we tried it now or later?"

Bruce grumbled low in his throat and ran a hand through his hair. "I'm just not sure if this is a good idea, Clark. I mean, it all seems harmless in theory, but what if—"

Clark placed a finger over Bruce's lips, silencing him. "There's no way to know, but the Fortress computer is programmed to serve me. It would never do anything to harm me, it's incapable of it. And we're safe here. When we're in my Fortress, we get to leave the world behind. Anywhere else, anywhere outside, it would be dangerous for me to try this. But, here, with you, we can experiment, knowing that it's only temporary and the computer can re-configure my DNA to restore my powers just as easily it takes them away.

"It's like role-playing," Clark said, grinning. "I hear couples do it all the time."

 _"Couples?"_

Clark nodded his head firmly. "Couples."

"I don't suppose I have a say in the definition of our relationship?"

"None at all."

Bruce smiled, and kissed him, and Clark knew he had somehow stumbled into heaven. Bruce Wayne was his heaven—distant, mysterious, ever-fleeting, changing and shifting, but glimmering in the distance—and now that he had found his paradise, there was no way Clark would ever let him go. There wasn't anything he wouldn't do to keep him by his side.

Bruce stepped back, allowing Clark to turn and place his hand on the interface.

What Clark experienced was like the flash of a light bulb, or the exposure of an x-ray machine, a brief pulsing that is blinding but over before the effects can be fully realized. When he stepped back from the machine, he felt only a moment's disorientation.

He looked at Bruce. Simply _looked,_ seeing no more, no less than any other person would see. He couldn't see anything more if he tried.

"Clark?"

"It worked," Clark said slowly, raising a hand and flexing his fingers, feeling the strange, pulsing quality of the finite. He looked over at Bruce, a smile spreading across his face. "It worked."

Bruce rushed up to him, grabbed him by the arms. "And you feel—?"

"Fine. Perfect." Clark tried to push himself up, to lift himself and Bruce, to _fly,_ and nothing happened. He started grinning maniacally. "I feel fine."

Bruce pulled him into his arms and kissed him, long and sweet, and so very different from every other kiss they had shared that Clark wanted to yell with joy. _It worked!_

Breaking their embrace, Bruce looked at him seriously for a moment, as a small half-smile started to spread across his face. Before Clark could question the source of his amusement, Bruce pulled a hand back and punched him in the face, sending Clark flying.

When Clark raised his head up and looked in Bruce's direction, his long-time friend was smirking. "You don't know how long I've wanted to do that," Bruce said, smugly.

Clark slowly got to his feet. "I'm bleeding! You busted my lip!"

Bruce shrugged a shoulder. "You're a superhero. Suck it up."

Clark could only look at him, letting the amazement and hurt show on his face, causing the corners of his mouth to droop. "Ouch," he said, feeling his lower lip, and glaring at Bruce. "This hurts."

Bruce sighed dramatically and walked in his direction. "Okay, okay," he grumbled, "stop crying. You're worse than Tim." His lopsided grin turned lecherous. "Let me kiss and make it better."

Clark allowed Bruce to fold him in his arms and capture his mouth, sucking lightly on the injured bottom lip, licking up the small amount of blood.

"Bruce—"

"Hmm—?" Bruce made a soft sound in his throat, clearly preoccupied . . .

Until Clark heaved and flipped him to the floor, landing with all his weight on the Bat's midsection, just below his utility belt, and securing his leather-clad hands above his head in three swift, well-choreographed movements.

"What the—!"

"Sucker." Clark smirked down at him, gloating. "Did I hurt you, Brucie? Guess you'll just have to suck it up."

Bruce growled. "Don’t." He glared. "Ever." He breathed deeply. "Call me _Brucie."_ The Dark Knight had their positions reversed before Clark knew what hit him.

Then, the battle was joined in earnest. They chased each other around the Fortress like rowdy children, taunting, tackling, escaping—nothing was safe from being used as a weapon. Bruce took full advantage of his new ability to keep Clark contained without Clark _enabling_ it, but even without his powers, Clark gave as good as he got. Things became rough, frenetic. They literally ripped each other's clothes off, wanting closer and better contact, leaving their uniforms in shreds and not caring one bit, and still roughhousing in the nude with abandon.

When they were both exhausted, lying on a cushy cloud in Clark's inner sanctum, naked as the day they were born and trying to catch their breath, Clark could only grin foolishly, despite the aches and the pain in too many places to mention. Always before, controlling himself was paramount, Now, there was nothing to control. It was remarkable, exhilarating. _I am just like you,_ he thought wonderingly, turning his head to the side so he could see Bruce's profile. _No more, no less, just exactly the same._ He couldn't help but think this was the happiest day of his life.

It wouldn't do to let Bruce know it, however. "I think you broke my arm," Clark complained, noticing the numbness and the inability to lift it.

"Wuss," Bruce responded with not an ounce of sympathy.

Clark moaned a little for dramatic effect. "Actually, I think it's going to take me a while to recover from this," he said, coyly. "We had better head back to the Watchtower. I couldn't possibly—"

Before he could finish his performance, he had a hot, sweaty, very aroused Bruce draped over him.

"Are you too worn out for this?" Bruce asked archly, pressing his erection into Clark's stomach, eliciting an immediate and telling response from Clark's own cock that was now crushed between their bodies.

"You did practically beat me to a pulp."

Bruce merely gazed at him for a moment, blue eyes twinkling in amusement. He didn't bother to respond, simply placed light, butterfly kisses along the line of Clark's jaw, the cleft of his chin.

Clark shuddered. "And my arm is killing me. I think you dislocated my shoulder, you ass."

Bruce ignored him, continuing from the cleft in his chin, down the slope of his neck, kissing, licking, and ever so lightly sucking.

Clark's breath caught in his throat. "I don't think you should be rewarded for taking out your aggressive tendencies on me—"

He groaned as Bruce spent some time on the lobe of his ear. "How am I going to explain the black eye…?" he mumbled.

"Shhh—" Bruce hushed him.

Overwhelmed, Clark simply laid there, drowning in a pool of deep intensity as Bruce kissed his body— _everywhere_ —and sucked on the hard nubs of his chest, and licked his Adam's apple, and blew softly on his belly button, and bit the soft inside of his thigh, and trailed a rough tongue over the bottom of his foot. There wasn't a place on his body that Bruce didn't fully explore, and mark, and make his own.

Not one single place.

Climbing back up his body, Bruce buried both hands in his hair and captured his mouth again for a kiss. "What does it feel like, Clark?" he breathed, moving from lips to ear. "What does it feel like to be human?"

 _How to explain?_ To Clark, it was an experience unlike any other in his entire life. The feelings—he would have thought that he'd feel _less_ without the benefit of his super-senses, but in fact, he felt so much _more_ as to be almost incapacitated; the capacity for feeling having been capped at a _human_ level, he felt that much more full, as if his every nerve ending was drowning in a torrent of sensations.

"It feels completely different," Clark said, slowly, "completely new." He paused, shy to say it, but it was the truth. "I feel like this is the first time I've ever done this."

Bruce chuckled.

"Don't laugh, you ass," Clark said, hitting his arm and smiling.

Clark suspected that he hadn't really made himself understood, made Bruce realize how different it was, how nuanced. What it meant to be here, like this, with the only person in the universe he trusted to take his measure, but there was no more time for reasoned talk. Again, Bruce had shimmied down, putting lips and tongue and hand to the hard length of his cock. Clark shuddered convulsively, and all thought of _reasoning_ and _explanations_ and _comparisons_ drained right out of his head like water through a sieve.

 _"Bruce,"_ he groaned, lifting his hips up and threading the fingers of one hand through dark silky hair. Soon, the strokes by hand and mouth became more deliberate, longer and more avid, working him from head to stem, coaxing him over the edge. He was too close. It was too much. Clark tried to move away from the mouth that was torturing him with a pleasure that was so keen, he had never experienced its like. "Stop!" he begged, twisting, his hips jerking. "That's enough—"

Bruce, looked up briefly, let Clark's cock slide out of that hot mouth and over pursed lips. "Never enough," he said, chuckling. _"Never."_

Sucking—Bruce lowered his head and resumed sucking, making loud, shameless noises. Knowing his protests would fall on deaf ears, and not really wanting Bruce to stop anyway, Clark threw himself back and simply arched up, surrendering to the rush of sensations, the tidal wave of lust.

He closed his eyes, shuddering, as he exploded to the sound of the thunder in his head. Lying there, his essence pulled out of himself by the hottest, most talented mouth in the world, Clark finally understood. It came to him with the clarity of a revelation at the apex of his release. Comparisons were pointless, fruitless. Humans were simply defenseless, without _control,_ and that lack of defense held everything that was beautiful and transient in life. There should be no defense against— _no controlling_ —pleasure like this.

Spent, Clark lay panting as Bruce licked up random drops of fluid that had somehow escaped his mouth. He reached out, needing to touch, resting his hand on the back of Bruce's neck. Clark was played out, completely exhausted by their activities, pleasantly surprised and content to be feeling so languid. He could easily go to sleep now. But he should have known better. Bruce sat up, the hungry look in those blue eyes unappeased, and Clark understood that the night was not over—not at all. It had only just begun.

Bruce climbed up his body. Their lips met, slowly, deeply, and then with more passion, until Bruce broke off their kissing with a groan. Shifting, he coaxed Clark's legs wider with a hand.

"We need—"

Clark reached out blindly and grabbed a conveniently materializing tube.

"Here."

Bruce took the tube, worked the cap off and dribbled a bit of ointment on his fingers. "This might hurt," he said, "since—"

"We've done this before," Clark interrupted, a hot anticipation settling in the pit of his stomach. "I won't break."

"Not like this. You're not invulnerable right now. We should take it slow."

Clark sighed. Leave it to Bruce to be all prim and cautious when he was all hot and bothered. "Bruce," he said in his most official "Superman" voice, "just do it."

With fingers and cool lubricant, Bruce worked him open, gentling his squirming discomfort with a few tender strokes. One finger, two, then three, Clark caught his breath as he felt those digits invade his body and slowly work themselves in and out.

When Bruce was satisfied he was stretched sufficiently, he paused, kneeling between Clark's spread legs. He leaned over, kissed him breathless, saying, "God, Clark, I want to be able to look at you when we do this." Bruce cupped his cheek. "Okay?" All Clark could do was nod as Bruce raised his legs up, onto his shoulders. Knowing Bruce wanted something from him made it impossible for him to say no.

Bruce's cock was hard and slick and pressed against his opening, demanding entrance, pushing, until the entrance was breached.

And it hurt. _God, it hurt!_ Clark couldn't stop the small startled sound that escaped past his lips as he breathed hard and fast. Bruce paused with the head of his cock right inside the tight ring of muscle, waiting for him to stop trembling, obviously, but he couldn't stop. _It hurt._

 _"Clark. God, Clark—"_ Bruce pushed in, groaning. _"So good. So fucking tight—"_

Clark felt like he was being ripped apart from the inside. Bruce was too big. _Way too big!_ Rationally, he knew that they had done this before but something must have happened in the time between him having his powers and not because, now, Bruce didn't fit. He was only halfway inside and no amount of insistent pushing was going to change the fact that he didn't fit—

"Wait. Bruce. It hurts—" Something was wrong. _Was this how it was supposed to feel?!_

"Shh," Bruce shushed him, soothing the flush on his face with kisses, "it'll get better, Clark. Oh God, Clark. I promise, it'll get better...." Bruce continued to murmur, soft, nonsensical things as he leaned forward, changing the angle, raising Clark's hips higher.

Too many sensations—they overwhelmed him. Pleasure. _Pain._ They washed over him like panic and an exquisite urge to escape.

 _"Bruce—"_

He started to move away, trying to pull his legs down from Bruce's shoulders and twist away from the rigid shaft that was trying to impale him so intimately.

 _"Don't,"_ Bruce groaned in his ear, trembling, pressing him down. The raw need in his voice stopped Clark's struggles, stilled him like the guitarist stills the strings of his instrument.

 _"I won't hurt you,"_ Bruce kissed him, quick butterfly kisses, on his check, his nose, his fluttering eyelids, whispered into the quivering hush, close by his ear, _"and if I do, forgive me._

 _"God, Clark, forgive me...."_

Bruce started to move again, this time not stopping at the whimpers, the painful shudders; not stopping until he was completely sheathed—completely, deeply. _Inside._

Clark groaned and bit down. _Drew blood!_ Bruce kissed him. Kissed him. Lapped at the blood, sucked on his injured lower lip. Panting. Waiting.

 _"Oh God, Clark, are you ready? Say you're ready...."_

Clark nodded, a quick jerk of the head. Slowly, Bruce started to ride him, to move, stroking his insides with that hard unavoidable length. Tearing into him. Angling—until Bruce could tell from his startled gasp that he'd found it, that spot deep within . . .

 _"Bruce! "_

. . . that made Clark pant and moan and rock his hips wantonly.

 _"God . . . Bruce!"_

Bruce increased his rhythm relentlessly. Harder, he pounded into him. Faster. Long, soul-deep strokes, short, quick thrusts, Bruce set a pace that was masterful, symphonic. Clark threw his head back. He couldn't breathe. He grabbed a fistful of dark hair, pulled—

 _"Come on—"_

Clark was desperate—for what, he wasn't sure. He just knew he needed more, more of every indescribable, uncontrollable sensation. He groaned and locked his gaze on Bruce's sweat-soaked face, the stars of his eyes, using his arms to try to pull the dark heat of the man closer, further inside. Clark's whole world reduced itself to Bruce, his impassive, infuriating friend and teammate, who was loving him and making love to him—

The sun and the moon and the stars were underneath his skin, pulsing, turning him translucent from the inside out—his senses, his soul, his reason—all lost in a white hot flash of light. His last conscious thought was of the slow warmth spreading all over his body, relaxing him, and Bruce holding him close, like he would never let him go.

+

 _Meanwhile . . . at Striker's Prison in Metropolis . . ._

"It's kind of late for this, Batman."

"I know, Warden," Batman said, his voice dark and low, "but it's necessary. My investigation is important, and I suspect time is of the essence."

"Okay, but I would only do this for you. After all, you and the Justice League put most of these criminals in here." The warden walked over to the guard on duty. "Where can we find John Dee?"

The guard checked his schedule. "He's supposed to be in the inmate recreation room for another thirty minutes. You want me to go get him?"

The warden looked at Batman inquiringly.

"Is there a way for me to observe him in the recreation room without him seeing me?"

The warden nodded. "Sure. The doctors do it all the time. Follow me."

Batman followed the warden through the security checkpoints, keeping a cautious eye on criminals he recognized as he passed by their cells. When they stopped outside a medium-sized room with a one-way observation glass, he quickly scanned faces, finally identifying the one he had come to see.

John Dee looked not much different from the way he had looked when he had last attacked the Justice League, except he was somewhat beefier and was wearing an electronic circlet around his head that was supposed to dampen his mental abilities. The circlet was a Wayne Enterprises invention and was the only reason Dee was able to spend his time with the general population rather than drugged and in a special solitary confinement for criminals with psychic abilities.

"The circlet—"

"Nullifies his mental powers," the warden said. "It's the only reason he's here at all."

Batman nodded. "Has he given you any trouble?"

"Not much. A couple of weeks ago he had an incident, but since then he's been quiet as a mouse."

"An incident?"

"Yeah," the warden said, dismissively. "When you've been around inmates for as long as I have, you'll find out that they're like geysers—weeks, months will go by with them acting as meek as a lamb and then one day they blow. No reason, something simply frustrates them and they act out. As long as we contain it quickly, things never get too far out of control."

"And John Dee?"

"He had a visitor, which was sort of unusual in itself, and afterwards he got into it with a guard. He got thrown in solitary for a few days. Calmed him right down. Haven't heard a peep from him since."

"And the guard?"

"He's been on leave for the past couple of weeks recovering. I don't expect him back until the first of the month."

Batman turned towards the glass, watching John Dee playing checkers with another inmate. It only took him ten minutes to notice the discrepancy. The warden was still waiting for him, though he had moved across the room to the desk and was talking on the phone. When the warden finished with his phone call, Batman motioned him over.

"You have a problem."

"A problem? What problem?"

"Can I trouble you to get all of the inmates except Dee out of that room? I need to talk to him alone."

"That's not really protocol, Batman. I don't think—"

"You can watch everything from right here, Warden," Batman assured him. "This will only take me a few minutes."

The warden reluctantly agreed, and started issuing orders that would discretely empty the room, until John Dee was the only one left, looking around suspiciously and starting to argue with the guard at the door.

"He's all yours, Batman, you can talk to him just don't do anything off the books. It’s my ass on the line," he warned. "I'll be right here watching."

"Thank you, Warden."

The warden watched from behind the glass as Batman entered the room and John Dee jumped up from his chair in alarm. He couldn't hear what the Bat was saying but the way he had Dee shaking and blubbering gave the warden a warm fuzzy feeling inside. _Now that's how you interrogate a crook,_ he thought with satisfaction. However, his admiration quickly turned to alarm as he saw the Bat reach into his utility belt and pull out a black, bat-shaped device. He rushed to enter the room as Batman threw the device at Dee but the door was locked. Fumbling with the key, he dropped them entirely as he watched Dee morph into a gigantic blob and attack Batman with flying missiles made of something that looked like mud. Amazed and appalled, the warden saw Batman quickly counterattack, and in the small room he could see that the Dark Knight had the advantage. Before he could think clearly enough to arrange for an assault on the room, Batman had subdued the monster and was exiting the room.

"That is Clayface, not John Dee," the Dark Knight said with a voice devoid of all emotion. "I used an electronic pulse bomb to stop his morphing ability. He'll be incapacitated for three hours. Use the time to get him to a secure facility."

He turned away, cloak swirling around him like smoke, and headed for the exit. "Put an A.P.B. out on Doctor Destiny," he said. "And the guard that he got into the fight with is likely dead."

The warden watched with his mouth open as Batman disappeared, obviously content to see himself out of the facility. Alone in the room, the warden blinked and took a deep breath, then started yelling for the guards.


	9. Chapter 9

**9—**

 _Eight days ago . . . at the old Metropolis airfield . . ._

They had just concluded another inexplicable encounter with the Superman Revenge Squad with nothing to show for it but a lot of destruction of public property and an increase in the number of bumps and bruises they were all sporting. The Squad had managed to escape yet again.

"This is ridiculous," Diana said, heading back to the Javelin. "It's almost as if they have a pre-set escape plan. But what is their objective?" she asked no one in particular.

"Maybe they're studying us, trying to see our strengths and weaknesses," Green Lantern offered, following her towards the aircraft.

"But they already know what we're capable of," Flash chimed in. "It's not as if we haven't already fought them like a _million_ times before."

"We should look around before we head back to the Watchtower," Batman added in a low voice toned to reveal that he planned to stay and investigate, regardless of what anyone else might think. "Superman and I will check around." He turned to the teammate in question. "I could use your x-ray vision."

"Okay," Hawkgirl said. "We'll see you back at the tower."

"You go that way," Batman said when they were alone. "Scan the buildings. Radio me if you find anything strange."

Clark was speechless for a moment, wondering if this was some kind of game Batman was playing. Did he really orchestrate time for them to be alone so they could investigate an abandoned airfield?

"Superman," Batman said, frowning. "Go. Now."

Clark guessed he did mean for them to investigate an abandoned airfield. _You don't have to be so evil,_ he grumbled under his breath, before heading in the assigned direction.

Twenty minutes spent exploring abandoned buildings, finding nothing worth mentioning, convinced Clark that there was nothing there to find. He was about to head back to where he had left Batman, but when he turned around, he found Batman standing right there.

His presence was so close and so unexpected that Clark jumped.

"Find anything?" Batman asked.

"Nothing. I don't know why they picked this site. There's nothing here." Clark took a step backwards, trying to put some space between himself and the Dark Knight, but Batman simply took a step forward, stalking him. Clark looked around nervously. He had just confirmed that there was no one around but they were still pretty much out in the open, albeit at the end of a corridor between two close-set buildings. It would be crazy to do anything… _crazy._

But Batman was not to be denied. He was impossible, implacable, like a force of nature, and absolutely refused to listen to reason.

"Wait, Bruce. This is crazy. What—"

"Clark, shut up."

"But—"

That was the last coherent thought that passed through Clark's mind for a good fifteen minutes, while Bruce managed to saturate every one of his sense without either of them removing a stitch of clothing or moving from their vertical positions, with Bruce pressing him hotly to a wall.

When sanity returned, what sanity he had left, he was reduced to repeating the same observation he had made at the beginning.

"This is crazy."

"I know," Batman said, straightening his cape. "Go ahead. I have to get the Batwing. I'll see you later at the tower."


	10. Chapter 10

**10—**

 _Five days ago . . . at Justice League headquarters . . ._

From his seat in front of a monitor in the control room where he was on watch duty, Batman studied Superman's profile. The Man of Steel was sitting in the tower cafeteria, by himself, with his head down over his food. Batman watched as Clark pushed his food around on his plate, oblivious to the world, with the blurrily preoccupied look of someone who has lost his appetite, or his soul. The Dark Knight frowned.

"You really shouldn't scrunch up your face like that," Flash said, appearing at his side. He peeked at the monitor before Batman could change the screen. "Keeping an eye on Big Blue?"

Batman grunted, not exactly sure what he had done to be afflicted with Flash this time. Perhaps he didn't look scary enough to keep the kid away? He would have to work on that—

"Big Blue _has_ been acting strange lately," Flash said conspiratorially. "I think he's in _love...."_

Batman swiveled his chair to look in Flash's direction appraisingly. "What makes you say that?" he wanted to know. Sometimes the kid surprised him with his insight.

"Oh, he's just been mooning around, you know, moping, sighing, sneaking through the corridors? For sure, someone's got a collar on the Big Guy. I just wonder who…?" Flash tapped the side of his head, intimating deep thought. "Hey!" he said as an idea came to him. "You don't think it could be the princess! Supes you _dog!"_

Batman turned the full force of his scowl on the annoying speedster.

"Nah," Flash said, backing away. "That's crazy. Superman and Wonder Woman. Never happen.... Gotta go!" Flash disappeared, and Batman grumbled quietly to himself that he didn't know why he had entertained the kid's opinion in the first place.

But he was worried. Something wasn't right. He supposed he could go talk to Clark and see if he could get a straight answer out of the Boy Scout, but all he could really say was that he had a bad feeling, and he didn't want Clark to accuse him of prying into his private life. Of course, there was an easier way for him to get answers to his questions....

Batman called up the surveillance video from various places in the Watchtower so he could follow Clark's movements backward from the cafeteria, satisfied that he had found something to occupy his time while he was stuck on watch duty, and that he'd soon have all the answers he craved.


	11. Chapter 11

**11—**

 _Seven days ago . . . at Justice League headquarters . . ._

Clark turned the water in the shower on hot, so hot it would probably be considered scalding by an average man, closed the shower unit door behind him and stripped off his uniform in the adjacent changing cubicle, laying it on the bench lining the wall with his towel, robe and toiletries. Naked, he walked over and stepped under the multi-directional jets, letting the water soak his face, drench his body, and drown the constant state of turmoil he had been in since the start of his whirlwind— _affair?_ —with Bruce. After four days and four mind-blowing encounters, Clark still didn't know what the hell Bruce wanted with him, where this thing between them was going. All he could think, when he could think at all, was that he was having the time of his life finding out.

 _If only Bruce were more communicative...._

Clark turned his head when he heard someone enter the outer area of the showering facility, surprised that another person would have the urge to shower at the same time he did. The Watchtower was big, and there were only seven of them. Even with them all on stand-by because of the threat of this new "Superman Revenge Squad" the likelihood that two Leaguers would be in the shower at the same time was slim. Fortunately, the shower facility, as well as the rest of the tower, was arranged to accommodate Bruce's paranoia about his secret identity and his billionaire's aesthetic. No expense had been spared to ensure that even though someone else was using the facilities, there was no way the person could see through the smoky glass of his particular shower cubicle and changing area or infringe on his privacy at all . . . unless he was doing what this person was doing and opening the door to Clark's stall, stripping in the adjacent changing room and letting himself into Clark's shower.

"Too hot."

"Bruce." Clark was too shocked to move, so Bruce reached across him to adjust the water temperature himself.

"Bruce—"

"You said that already. Want to try something new?"

 _"Now?"_

"I meant do you want to try _saying_ something new," Bruce said, his voice low, gravelly, amused, as he stepped further into the shower, placing a hand lightly on Clark's hip, and letting the water surround them both, "but your interpretation actually works better."

"But Bruce—" Clark objected, still in shock, though his body knew instinctively how to respond to the proximity of a naked, wet, Gotham Knight and rose to the occasion, matching an equal hardness in the body that was now only a hand's breadth distant. The hand at his waist started a light petting of his flank, and Clark lost his entire train of thought.

"Shut up, Clark," Bruce said, pulling him closer, bringing their bodies fully flush against each other. "Not everything requires a discussion."

Then Bruce kissed him— _just like that_ —teased his lips open— _they willingly opened_ —and lightly captured his tongue. This one kiss halted all objections, in the same way that the song of one bird can halt the silence before the dawn. This one kiss—it seemed to last forever to Clark. It went on and on and on like a shaft of light shot through the universe.

Wet bodies slid against each other and hands stroked and kneaded, erections trapped and straining in between, until Bruce skated his body around to Clark's back, languidly licking the wetness from the curve of his neck. Bruce wrapped a hand around his cock from behind, through the water, and squeezed, and then pressed his own erection into the space between Clark's legs.

Every touch was leisurely, the passion right below the surface. Clark relaxed back into Bruce's arms, reveled in the way their bodies fit together like a key in a lock, sank into the dual sensation of the hand that was at times simply holding his sex possessively, and at others stoking languidly, and the tongue that licked his neck, his shoulders, lapped and lingered and caused an undulating tickle to tease his senses that was only accented by the water failing.

It seemed like hours passed while they stayed just like that, relaxed, lazy, uncomplicated; it wasn't until Bruce started to shift, to slowly move his cock in and out of the small space where Clark's buttocks and legs met, that their passion burst into a torrent.

"Clark," Bruce groaned in between hard suckles at the junction of shoulder and neck.

"Hmm—" The hand let go of his cock. Clark sighed softly at the loss.

"Turn around."

Clark opened his eyes and moved, and the water moved with him, an erotic liquid pattering against his skin, until he was facing Bruce, their bodies properly aligned face-to-face. Clark found himself mesmerized by the twinkle in lust-darkened eyes of ice blue complexity as they looked at him through long, wet eyelashes. Tempting—it was entirely too tempting. Not even a man made of steel could stop himself from tasting those slightly parted lips.

Pressing himself to Bruce's chest, trapping their erections between, he devoured the mouth that was offered to him. But he was only in control for a few heartbeats, for the span of time it took Bruce to bring his hands up to tug lightly on Clark's hair, jerking his head back.

"Down," he said, pushing Clark down, pulling at his hair until Clark was in the right position, face to groin. Clark felt the keenest satisfaction bubble up in his chest as Bruce arched his back in ecstasy when he slowly wrapped his mouth around the Dark Knight's cock.

The taste of pre-cum was like nectar, and Clark drank, sucking and licking aggressively. The hands pulling at his hair became insistent as Clark sucked around delicate balls while stroking a fierce rhythm with a wet hand from head to stem.

At just the right moment, _just then,_ he engulfed the entire length of cock in his mouth, his hands firmly gripping Bruce's buttocks, and he opened his throat wide—allowing Bruce to use his mouth frantically and with no encumbrances. Clark could feel the tension building, churning and swollen, in the back of his throat and knew there were only moments left before it broke.

Abruptly, Bruce threw his head back and groaned loudly, arching his back in sheer delight. The sound was like music and roared in Clark's ears like the drums of paradise. It was only when he heard the distinctive sound of someone entering the shower room that he froze, mouth full of cock, and then slowly swallowed. He shimmied his way up Bruce's body, his own erection forgotten in the panic, about to ask what they should do now, but the Dark Knight put a finger to his lips, eyes cautioning him to be quiet.

"Someone in here?"

It was Flash. Clark raised an eyebrow and Bruce nodded his head in assent.

"Just me, Flash. I'll be out of your way in a minute."

"Don't rush on my account, Big Guy," Flash called out flippantly. Clark heard the shower on the other side of the room turn on. "You go ahead and do your thing." The Flash started singing.

Bruce had that small, self-satisfied smirk on his face that always managed to get under Clark's skin. With a little burst of his super strength and speed, Clark knocked Bruce back and had him pressed against a wall. Close to his ear, Clark whispered, "This is not funny, Bruce. We can't keep doing this. What if we get caught?" He'd be so _embarrassed._

"You worry too much," Bruce whispered back.

"I worry too much?" Clark murmured incredulously. "Who are you and what have you done with Bruce?"

Bruce shook his head and pulled him in for a kiss. For a time, Clark was content to just drown himself in Bruce, but hearing Flash singing in the background brought his point to the surface once again.

"Tomorrow," he whispered in Bruce's ear, breaking their kiss. "Tomorrow we go to my house and we do this my way. Agreed?"

Bruce nodded his head slowly, a dark, delicious grin spreading over his face that caused a spiraling tightness in Clark's groin at the thought of what he could do with Bruce _tomorrow,_ when he had the Dark Knight alone in his Fortress with no intruders, no possible interruptions. There would be nothing they couldn't do.

Smiling at the thought, Clark reached behind him to turn off the water, saying quietly to Bruce, "Now how are we going to get out of here?"

+

 _Meanwhile . . . in Metropolis . . ._

Lex Luthor moved his mouse over the button that would start the recording from the beginning, and pressed down, chuckling wickedly. Mercy sauntered over to see what had her boss so amused.

"What's that?" she asked pointing at the screen.

"That, my dear, is the fruit of our labors, the thing that will free me from this sordid mess with Brainiac," he grinned, all teeth, "and allow me my revenge upon Superman."

Mercy shrugged. "Looks like a porn video."

Mercy wasn't surprised when her boss jumped out of his seat and started gesticulating with his arms, all raw energy and excitement. He was often enthusiastic about his various plots and machinations, especially when they concerned Superman.

"Never in my wildest dreams," he said, "did I think that picking Batman as Superman's weakness would net me such a win. Look," he swiveled the computer screen so she could better see the images, "that's Superman and Batman. _Superman and Batman!_ And I have it all on tape."

Mercy stared at the screen in wonder. "Superman and Batman? You're kidding, right?"

"No, my dear. I'm certainly not kidding."

He sat back down behind his desk and put his feet up on the top. "Check in with Livewire," he instructed her, "then go and see to Grodd and Doctor Destiny. Make sure everything's on schedule."

She started towards the door. "And Mercy," he called out after her, "not one word about the tapes."

"Clark," he said to himself when he was alone in his office, "so it's Batman you want. Some things never cease to amaze me."


	12. Chapter 12

**12—**

 _Ten days ago . . . in the Watchtower hanger bay . . ._

When the Javelin landed in the hanger bay of the Watchtower, The Flash was the first to the door.

"Gotta run," he called out as the door slowly opened. "I have to check my e-mail. Got a hot date tonight."

 _"Flash,"_ Green Lantern warned.

"I know, I know. Team meeting, thirty minutes. I'll be there." And then he was gone.

Clark hung back as the rest of the team prepared to debark. Hawkgirl was in the pilot's seat and Batman was her co-pilot. They had just returned from their most recent brush with the so-called "Superman Revenge Squad," a group apparently dedicated to killing him through annoyance because despite the increase in activity, the group seemed to have developed a hit and run tactic since their last major brush that was quite unusual for the average irrational and maniacal super-villain group. He gazed thoughtfully at Batman's profile.

He kept stealing glances at him out of the corners of his eyes as Diana and Lantern debarked, chatting amiably, but turned away quickly when Batman looked in his direction, only to return to his covert contemplation when it seemed the Bat's attention was elsewhere checking systems as was his habit whenever he powered down the aircraft. Clark was afflicted with a swirling tension edged with excitement in the pit of his stomach and couldn't keep his eyes away from that dark profile. J'onn and Hawkgirl, two Leaguers who had seemed to Clark to have become closer over the last few months, were the next to head out.

Batman was the last one to leave, but before he did he walked over to Clark and stood in front of him in that confrontational way that was pure _Bat_ and that was only emphasized by the eerie whiteness of his cowl's eye sockets. "Something wrong, Superman?" he growled.

"Wrong?" Clark answered, licking his lips nervously.

"You keep staring at me."

"Staring at you?"

"And you're repeating my sentences. Do you have a problem with me?"

"Problem? Uh…no problem. Just thinking."

Batman frowned, and Clark could imagine seeing an eyebrow rise under the cowl, but the Dark Knight made no further comment and simply turned with a swirl of cape and made his way out of the Javelin.

Alone, Clark let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding and leaned back on the command console in relief. _Stupid!_ He was so stupid! Acting like a lovesick puppy, caught _staring._ Just because he and Batman . . . just because in the training room the other day Bruce had seemed so…it didn't mean…it didn't _mean_ anything at all. Stupid. _Stupid…!_

Staring at the floor, Clark was so preoccupied mentally berating himself that he actually jumped when he realized that Batman hadn't left the plane, that he was back and standing right in front of him.

"Batman…?"

But it seemed the Dark Knight had exhausted his capacity for words because he simply stepped closer, lifted a gloved hand to the back of Clark's head and captured his mouth in one swift swooping motion.

Clark was paralyzed, senses reeling at the hot press of leather against the thin layer of his own costume, the feel of Batman's gloved hands in his hair, on his face, even the strangely artificial swipe of the edge of the mask across his nose. All that paled in comparison, however, when a hand moved from his hair, down his back, across his hip, and between the two of them to start slowly, erotically, kneading his cock through the thin material of his uniform.

Groaning, melting, Clark stumbled backwards, grabbing onto Bruce to keep his balance while still opening his legs to receive more and better service from that insistent, leather-clad hand. He was lost in the taste of Bruce, the demanding way his lips pressed against his own, the way his tongue dodged and flitted around his teeth, the way he groaned, deep in his throat every time Clark's lips responded in kind. Who would have thought the acid elixir of his company, his erudition, his harsh judgment, the razors of his tongue and his mind would hide such a delicious taste, such an addictive sound, such a pleasing smell, and such a mind-blowing feel?

It was only in the far-removed background of his mind, in the place that never truly relaxed into any great moment, the core of his superhero's instinct that kept his senses alert even in the face of his drowning, that he realized someone was coming. That another Leaguer had entered the hanger and was making his way toward the Javelin, heartbeat loud and ominous. Clark ripped himself away from Bruce and choked, _"Company."_

He used his super-speed to settle in a seat at the other end of the aircraft just as Lantern poked his head in. Frantically, he tried to find something to cover his raging hard-on.

"Superman—"

Lantern stopped when he saw Batman sitting in the pilot's seat, fiddling with the console. "Batman," he said, "didn't you just—" He looked between the two of them, seeming to notice something strange. "Is something wrong?" he asked suspiciously.

"Nothing's wrong," Batman responded in his most impassive voice, and Clark used the redirection of Lantern's attention as an opportunity to straighten his hair and uniform. Bruce didn't have to worry about looking a mess, Clark grumbled to himself. He had the mask and the _cowl._ It was only Clark who looked like he'd just been ravished by a wild animal. He was so _embarrassed._

"I came back to check on the autopilot," Batman said. "I was going to leave it until later but thought better of it."

Lantern turned to Clark with a lifted eyebrow.

"I was just keeping him company," Clark added lamely.

Both eyebrows went up. "I don't want to know," Lantern mumbled. "Could you two just get to the conference room as soon as it's _convenient."_ The slight emphasis on the word convenient made Clark blush. He quickly turned his face away, finding the aircraft window suddenly very interesting. "You're late for the meeting."

"Thank you," Batman said, unflappable, and Clark wondered, not for the first time, if anything could ruffle his legendary impassivity. "We'll be right there."

Green Lantern exited the vehicle, and Clark breathed a sigh of relief.

"I thought you said this was a mistake," Clark said as he got up and walked over to the front of the vehicle, and he couldn't help the small note of accusation that accompanied his words. Bruce ran hot and cold—one minute he was as warm as a granite stone and the next he was practically attacking him in semi-public places. Clark wasn't sure whether to be scared or flattered.

"It was," Batman said with a shrug. "Now it's just fun."

Clark watched in amazement as Batman closed the console and exited the craft, saying over his shoulder, "Put a move on it, Superman. You know the meeting can't start without _you."_

Clark had to take a minute to gather his composure, to get his hormones under control and reestablish his equilibrium, but a slow self-satisfied smile was spreading across his face, one that he couldn't suppress, because Bruce had said he was having _fun_ and that was like an admission of culpability from God. He wanted Bruce to keep having fun. With him. Clark had never realized that it was possible to want something so much.


	13. Chapter 13

**13—**

 _Two days ago . . . at Justice League headquarters . . ._

When Batman arrived at the Watchtower, he headed straight for the control room. He found Diana there with Flash, who was on watch duty and complaining about it—loudly.

"Can't someone design a robot to handle watch duty?" he whined. "All this sitting around is going to give me hemorrhoids . . ."

The Dark Knight ignored him, and instead, stalked over to Diana.

"Where's Superman?"

"Batman," she acknowledged, looking up from an electronic file on the Revenge Squad that she was studying. "You could try greeting people when you first see them."

"Diana," Bruce said, without inflection. "Where's Superman?"

Diana sighed in exasperation, but Flash piped in before she could relent and answer the question.

"The Big Guy's at the Fortress. Said to call him if anything comes up. Come to think of it, he's been at the Fortress a lot the past week. Supes is usually the first one trying to pull out a can of whoop ass on the bad guys. Think something's going on that we don't know about?"

Batman glared at Flash in disgust. Leave it to the kid to cut right to the core of the problem without even trying, when it had taken Batman the better part of two weeks to piece it all together. Someone so annoying shouldn't be so insightful. It was against the laws of nature.

Flash shrugged his shoulders innocently. "What?"

"Where's J'onn?" Batman asked.

"J'onn?" Diana said with a raised eyebrow. "He's not here. He's been gone since yesterday. He didn't say where he was going." She walked over to Batman and placed a hand lightly on his arm. "Batman, is there something wrong?"

"I don't know," Batman said shortly. "Let's just call the Fortress."

They called, but no one answered. They tried reaching Superman in every way possible to no avail.

"Why don’t you tell us what's going on."

Batman explained his investigation; how he started noticing little things that bothered him: dead spots in tower surveillance; Superman acting strangely; J'onn absent from the Watchtower more often than usual. He walked Diana and Flash through the information that Oracle found through her corporate channels about LexCorp's contract for developing nanotechnology for psychic warfare and the company's recent troubles. Finally, he detailed last night's visit to Striker's Prison and the discovery that Clayface was impersonating John Dee and that Doctor Destiny was on the loose. Batman explained how his interrogation of Clayface confirmed a plot by Luthor against Superman, but, of course, Clayface wasn't privy to the details; he was in it for a cure for his condition that Luthor had promised him and a large payout.

Diana walked over to the computer and pulled up the file she was reviewing. "Look at this," she said.

She showed them a video feed of Livewire meeting with Luthor's bodyguard, Mercy, at a partially completed construction site in downtown Metropolis, right before her attack on the Galleria.

"I found the same video," Batman confirmed.

Diana nodded. "I suspect this Superman Revenge Squad is merely a diversion for some Luthor-orchestrated endgame. They've been engaging us, then disappearing, keeping us on high alert, keeping us close. That's not the way any of them have operated in the past."

Batman folded his arms across his chest. "But a diversion for what?"

"I'll call over to the Fortress again and try J'onn's communicator."

Nothing.

It was obvious what they had to do next.

"I'm going with you," Diana said as Batman turned with a flare of cape and headed out of the control room and to the hanger bay.

"If she gets to go, so am I," said Flash as he used his speed to get in front of the Bat and hold the door open.

Batman didn't bother to respond. His intuition told him that they were on a precipice; that there was no more time left. They needed to get to the Fortress. He just hoped they wouldn't be too late.

+

 _Meanwhile . . . at the Fortress of Solitude . . ._

Clark opened his eyes slowly, groggy with sleep and feeling wonderfully human, wonderfully sore in all the right places. The only thing he wanted to do was figure out where his Bat had gone. The man was missing but was likely in the outer Fortress getting himself into trouble.

He heard noises coming from the outer chamber, loud, unusual noises that made Clark hurry to pull on a pair of boxers and stumble towards the sound. When he reached the entranceway he could only freeze in shock.

"Welcome Kal-El." The voice of Brainiac emanated from everywhere and nowhere but it was the sight of Bruce, frozen in some sort of force field that stopped his breath.

 _"Brainiac."_

"You remember me. I am flattered." A holographic projection appeared in front of him, of Brainiac, the way it appeared before Clark had destroyed it and its ship. "I am in control of your computer, Kal-El. You have lost, unaware that you stood in the midst of battle. One more time I offer you what I offered when first we met: the chance to join me as I explore the galaxy."

"Don't waste your time," Clark growled.

"It is your choice, Kal-El, but you are human now, and life can be very short for a human."

"Let him go," Clark said, pointing at Bruce in the stasis field, "and I will join you."

"Poor Kal-El," Brainiac said. "Still so confused. That one is my tool, but if you want him, certainly you should have him."

The stasis field shimmered and disappeared, causing Bruce to fall heavily to the ground. Clark rushed over, knelt by his side. "Bruce," he said, urgently. _"Bruce."_

Bruce lifted his head, slowly, and Clark drowned in blue eyes that shimmered with pain and confusion, until Bruce shifted in his hands like sand and changed, and those eyes became the eyes of his teammate, J'onn.

Clark fell backwards, shocked.

"You see, Kal-El," Brainiac's voice came from all directions, computerized, dispassionate, "you care too much for these humans. They are your true weakness. Now you have lost it all."

But Clark wasn't listening. His emotions had risen up and stuck in the back of his throat like bile, made up of astonishment and horror and a violent influx of realization. _J'onn?_

He heard Brainiac say, "Place him in the stasis field. I need his DNA. He doesn't have to be alive," before Livewire, Metallo, Weather Wizard, _J'onn,_ descended upon him like a plague of birds, nattering, taunting, tearing into him with claws and beaks, but Clark was removed from it all, floating in another reality, far distant, where he could only see the visage of Doctor Destiny and Grodd, cackling madly in the background. Where he could only see J'onn hovering over him, hand turned into a long blade that ripped open his chest; he couldn't feel it. He couldn't feel anything.

They raised him from the pool of his own blood, prepared to toss him into stasis like a sacrifice. Then all hell broke loose, and by the end of it all, the intruders had been banished and a preternatural calm was restored.

Distantly, Clark realized that it was Diana and Flash and . . . _Batman,_ who had come to his rescue, heard, in some far-off corner of his mind J'onn screaming and clutching his head, in intense pain. There was still Brainiac, in control of the Fortress, and the fact that he was slowly bleeding to death. He started struggling to his feet.

 _"Superman!"_

It was Batman, of course, with hands and demands, trying to get him to stop. _What happened? What are you doing?_

But he didn't stop, and managed to knock Batman away. He stumbled over to the Fortress computer interface and placed his bloody hand on the console.

The fight for his life, for control of the legacy Brainiac had usurped took place in the space between heartbeats, but the conclusion was never in doubt. The Fortress computer was a gift from his father, Jor-El, the great Kryptonian scientist, the man who hated Brainiac and loved his son more than his own life. Ultimately, nothing that was the product of his hands could harm him.

When the light around his body faded and he was restored, his first thought was for his teammate, J'onn, who was still screaming his mental anguish to the world. He flew over and landed lightly by Diana's side. "He's dying," she said. "It's killing him."

Clark broke the cord that Batman had tied around J'onn to restrain him and lifted him into his arms.

"Wait," Batman said, grabbing his arm. "He attacked us—"

Clark shrugged out of his hold roughly and flew his charge over to the computer. He found out from it what needed to be done and did it. It was only after J'onn was resting peacefully in his arms that he relaxed.

"We have to get him to the Watchtower," Clark said, carrying J'onn towards the Javelin and expecting the three Leaguers and their four captured super-villains to follow.

"Superman, are you alright?"

The taste in his mouth was bitter and salt, sour and sweet on his tongue. It reminded him of dreams, and darkness, and being caught in the wrong reality. It brought back everything. He had to swallow before he could speak.

He said, "I'm fine."

Though he suspected he'd never be fine again.

+

 _Later that night . . . in the infirmary at Justice League headquarters . . ._

J'onn woke at last from a dark dream that slipped and shifted and poured through his mind like sand through fingers spread wide.

Slowly, he regained a realization of self. He tried to raise his head but the world rocked; he clutched at those things around him that were solid—the sheet, the edge of the mattress. He was in a bed.

He recognized his surroundings: he was in the infirmary at the Watchtower, that much was clear. It was the rest of it all that was swirling around in his head, evanescent, like a mirage that lingered in front of the mind's eye.

Superman was standing by his bed, tall, imposing, looking down at him with a soul-deep sadness behind his sky blue eyes—and it all came rushing back.

"You're awake," Superman said quietly. "How do you feel? Can I get you anything?"

J'onn felt as weak as a kitten, but didn't want to say as much. His powers seemed strangely shuttered too, but he figured that they would straighten themselves out with time and rest. His gaze swept the room, hoping, like a coward, that there would be someone else in the area whose presence would stave off this confrontation. He had never felt so disquieted in all his life. "I could use something to drink," he responded slowly.

Superman walked over to a table by the front of the room and poured him a glass of water. While over there, he put some cookies on a plate and brought them over too. _He is so considerate,_ J'onn thought with amazement. _Even after everything that has happened, everything I have taken from him, he is incapable of spite. I tried to kill him!_

J'onn took a long drink from the glass for courage. His mouth was so dry! "What happened?" he asked, afraid to start a conversation about anything more meaningful.

"Sensory overload," Superman explained. "You were injected with nanites that kept your mind in a waking dream state, making it possible for Doctor Destiny to control you over a long period of time. Your mind was under so much stress that your brain started short-circuiting when you were ordered to kill your teammates." Superman paused, and J'onn closed his eyes, remembering. "After the rescue, I placed you in a containment field created by the Fortress computer and used my microscopic and heat vision to eliminate the nanites and fix the damage as best I could. We rushed you here, and, fortunately, you had the infirmary computers programmed for Martian physiology."

J'onn glanced at the monitors by his bed. A quick look confirmed that everything seemed to be within normal parameters. "And Lex Luthor?" he asked.

"He was nowhere to be found, but we apprehended Doctor Destiny, Livewire, Weather Wizard and Metallo," he paused, and J'onn could hear the small hitch in his voice, though he supposed no one else would be able to tell the difference, "and Batman uncovered Clayface in Striker's. He was in there impersonating Doctor Destiny."

"Thank you," J'onn said, "for saving my life." He started to reach out, to touch the hand that was lightly resting on the edge of his bed in gratitude, but Superman took a step back from the bed and turned to the monitor, fiddling with it, as if the instrument had suddenly become very interesting. J'onn couldn't help the deep sadness that seemed to swallow him whole, that made him blink and turn his face away.

"Really, it was Batman," Superman continued as if nothing was wrong. "He figured it out. If he hadn't gotten to the Fortress when he did we'd both be in trouble now."

There was silence between them for a span of heartbeats. It was only after it became evident that Superman was above hurling accusations and seemed, in fact, intent upon standing by his bedside, quiet, suffering silently, all night long that J'onn decided to say something to address the real issues between them.

"I would understand," he asked in a low voice, "if my presence makes you uncomfortable."

Superman ducked his head. "It's not you," he said, with just a hint of frustration edging his voice." Then he looked up, stared J'onn directly in the eyes as if accepting responsibility for a terrible disaster. "This is all my fault." His tone was flat, final.

"No," J'onn disagreed. "I am to blame. My abilities are my responsibility to control. I should have warded myself against this type of attack."

"How could you?" Superman asked, bitterly. "How could you protect yourself against being injected with one of Luthor's maniacal inventions? No," he shook his head, "this is my fault. If I hadn't wanted—"

J'onn couldn't let Superman continue to think that he was responsible for what had transpired over the last two weeks. J'onn believed that Superman, more than anyone else, was the victim.

"My friend," he said, "you can't blame yourself for the things you desire. Only a sick man like Lex Luthor would think to use your dreams against you," and as much as he didn't want to discuss the . . . truth . . . he felt he owed it to Superman to be honest.

"I have a confession to make," J'onn said slowly. "I should have been able to stop it. I think, many times, I was right on the verge of breaking free of their control but something held me back." Superman was staring at him with such deep _hurt_ in his eyes; J'onn found it hard to continue. "Even though I had no control over what was happening, deep down I . . . I enjoyed it," J'onn admitted. "I felt loved, safe. It has been such a long time since I felt that way. It will be hard for me to forget . . ."

Superman turned away quickly, and then walked over to the table and poured himself a glass of water. It was only after he finished drinking that he returned to the bed with a chair and sat down. When he started speaking again, his voice was low, a mere whisper, and he leaned in close as if he were going to impart a secret.

"I'm trying to forget," Clark said in a soft, hesitant voice. "It's crazy. I know it was all a lie but . . . " He ran a hand through his hair. "I think I knew there was something wrong, but I wanted so desperately to believe—" He stopped abruptly and took a deep breath. "So much has changed," he said. "I have all of these memories. Of me. Of _him._ I can't just forget . . ."

"I feel the same way," J'onn admitted.

"I don't understand."

"You remember Batman," he said slowly. "I remember you."

Superman didn't respond; he just stared at him intently, as if trying to find the meaning of his admission in the lines and curves of his face. "Look at us," he said, finally, smiling. "We're such a mess."

J'onn returned his smile. Yes, indeed, the two of them were quite a mess. "Batman is lucky," he said.

"Lucky? What do you mean?"

"For him to be so loved by someone like you; indeed, it is a rare gift." J'onn watched Superman duck his head. That a person with so much power could still find it within himself to be embarrassed by his feelings was one of Superman's finer qualities and epitomized that bit of innocence he maintained despite it all. That anyone would make it his life's mission to destroy such a beautiful spirit, this last son of Krypton, was beyond J'onn's understanding.

"What are you going to tell Batman?" he asked, but noting the tension that seemed to suddenly seize Superman's whole body, J'onn regretted the question almost immediately.

"Nothing, J'onn," he said, reaching out a hand and gripping his arm. "Please. Promise me. I don't want him to know—"

"Don't you think he has a right to know?' J'onn asked softly. "That I spent two weeks impersonating him, that you—"

"Why?" Superman was all agitation now. "I know Batman, perhaps better than anyone," he said. "He wouldn't appreciate any of this, and my _feelings_ would simply be a waste of his time."

"I think you underestimate him."

"No," Superman said, shaking his head. "Batman can never know what happened. It would ruin everything. I couldn't stand to lose him as a friend.

"This stays between us. Please. Promise me."

Despite his misgivings, despite feeling that Superman couldn't possibly get past this event without at least talking about it with Batman, J'onn was unable to press the issue in the face of Superman's obvious distress. It seemed that a lingering by-product of his experience was an inability to deny Superman anything; a bone-felt aversion to seeing him hurt any further. "I promise," he said. "Batman doesn't have to know."

"I don't have to know what?"

J'onn was surprised at Superman's ability to hide his guilty startlement so well, to so easily turn, and rise up, and to look in Batman's direction, however briefly.

Batman stared at the two of them expectantly, suspiciously, but when he didn't get a response, he thankfully dropped it and headed for the bed. As Superman made to move away to make room for his teammate, Batman grabbed his arm, halting his progress. "How are you feeling?"

Gently extricating himself from Batman's grip, Superman turned away and headed across the room. "I feel great," he said over his shoulder, but he didn't stop his retreat.

"I'll leave you to your company, J'onn," Superman said as he pushed open the door. "I'll be back to check on you a little later."

J'onn followed the exit of Metropolis' favorite son with his eyes, trying hard to identify the feeling that had suddenly overwhelmed him at the sight of Batman's hand on Superman's arm. It was only after he could no longer feel Superman's presence in the corridor outside of the infirmary that he returned his attention to the Dark Knight by his bedside. "I'm sorry, Batman," he said. "I'm feeling a little disoriented. What did you say?"


	14. Chapter 14

**14—**

 **Epilogue**

 _Here and now . . . at the top of the Metropolis Observatory . . ._

The rain poured down in torrents, drenching everything—hair, cape and costume—in a cold wash of nighttime forgetfulness. Superman stood on the abandoned utility bridge connecting the old dome of the Metropolis Observatory to the new Observatory building that had been funded by the Luthor Foundation for the Advancement of Science. The building was built into the side of a mountain and had the distinction of being the highest point outside of the city where a person could look down on Metropolis or up at the stars unimpeded. It had always been his favorite place to go when he needed time alone to think but couldn't afford to be too far away from Metropolis in case he was needed. In the dark, with the rain falling in sheets, he longed to find an answer to his troubles, for an end to his embarrassment and the inescapable _wanting_ that had taken over his thoughts; he longed for a simpler time, when the stars were mysterious, untouchable, without the taint of familiarity, where, instead of looking down at Earth from a Watchtower, he spent his time looking up, in wonder, at the night sky.

He was so confused. This was never supposed to happen. It hadn't happened, but it _felt_ like it had, felt like the most real thing that had ever happened to him in his whole life. It seemed impossible to forget—

 _Hands in his hair, gentle fingers that entwined themselves there and felt like heaven; the passionate press of arms and legs, a devouring assault of lips and mouth on tender skin, the scandalous symphony of noise—of sucking, of whimpering, of moaning…._

How was he supposed to explain this to Lois when he didn't even understand it himself? Where would he find the words to explain it to Bruce when he couldn't even bear to look at him?

How was he going to explain being heartsick over an illusion?

He didn't even look up when the Dark Knight stepped out of the shadows behind him.

"How did you find me?" _Batman. Always the shadow by my side. He is the only person who really **knows** me, the different aspects of me. Sometimes I think he knows me better than I know myself._

"We've known each other for a long time, Clark. I'd be a poor friend if I couldn't find you when you don't want to be found." _Not a look, or the usual corn-fed smile. Just silence, so unusual for Clark. Just a silhouette of **darkness** etched in rain. He almost looks like he belongs in my world, robbed of that last bit of innocence that has set him apart from every other hero. I wonder if I know this Clark. _

After a few minutes, when it became obvious that Clark wasn't going to say anything, Bruce tried again.

"Lois is worried. She said you took a leave of absence from the paper."

"I put in a vacation request." Clark shrugged. "I never take vacations. I have a lot of time piled up. Don't know if I'll get it."

"Well, if Perry gives you a hard time," Bruce smirked, though he was sure the effect was blunted by the rain and his cowl, "I'm sure the owner of the paper will support you."

Even his quip got no response.

Somberly this time, Bruce tried again. "You think you need a break?" _The weight of the world is on his shoulders. Superman is expected to be a paragon, everyone's own personal hero. He has an indomitable spirit that refuses to admit it's impossible to save everyone. I remember my father, as a doctor, was very much the same way. He would never give up on a life he thought he could save—and he thought he could save **everyone.** I look at Superman and see a man my father would have respected; a man my father would have been proud of. It's probably why I put up with him, even though his Boy Scout routine drives me up a wall.  
_  
Superman shrugged noncommittally.

"Clark—" Bruce reached out, grabbed his arm and turned him around, **"look** at me. What happened at the Fortress?"

Clark went still, and for a moment, Bruce was sure he would receive no answer at all to his question.

"You talked to J'onn?"

"He told me to talk to you."

Clark shrugged his hand off. "Bruce, listen, I just don't want to get into it right now. It's personal. Do you understand?"

"I think you need to talk about it."

Clark shook his head. "Not now. Not with you."

It was Bruce's turn to be silent, hurt. "I thought we trusted each other."

"Leave it alone, Bruce." _The first time I met Batman, I was sure we'd never get along, sure he'd only ever be someone I could tolerate, in small doses. Over years of saving each other's lives, of confidences shared and trust established, I came to see that our differences were the glue that made our **partnership** that much stronger. A marriage of equals and opposites, he became the brother that I never had, a brother of nighttime shadows who grounded me whenever I strayed too close to the sun._

"Clark—"

"Leave it alone."

Bruce's voice, usually so low and threatening, took on a new note of exasperation. "What would you do if you were in **my** position? Would you leave it alone?"

Clark stared at him with eyes of indigo shadows, full of indecision, and Bruce saw something he thought he'd never see: Clark, poised on the edge of a lie.

"I wanted something," he said, hesitantly, "—something impossible. I wanted something I _knew_ I couldn't have. I wanted it—" _more than anything._ His tone became ashes, bitter. "Lex took advantage of that."

Finally! At least Clark was talking to him. "Let me fix it," Bruce offered as a way to keep him talking, to wrest a full explanation from this stranger who had once been his closest friend.

"You can't. Not everything can be tinkered with like one of your gadgets, Bruce."

"I can deal with Lex Luthor."

Clark sighed and shook his head. This was the Bruce he knew—stubborn, obstinate, with an insatiable curiosity and need to control every situation. How could he have ever been fooled into thinking— Clark used his x-ray vision to look beneath Batman's costume, to confirm something he already knew: Bruce's body was scarred, his skin riddled with the evidence that his was a _human_ battle. The pristine skin, the soft smooth expanse of chest that had so captivated him during their time together— _No! The illusion of their time together!_ —was a complete fabrication, a lie. And worse, he should have been able to tell. Of course Bruce's skin would be the paper upon which was written the story of his many battles. The truth was obvious, if he had only been willing to **see** it. Clark raised a hand, wanting to touch, to mark the difference between the truth and the lie with his own fingertips, but he stopped himself. He had almost forgotten. He didn't have the right.

Bruce noticed the way Clark seemed to look right through him, the aborted movement, and, finally, the resolute set to his face that spoke of endless possibilities, stunted and unrealized. "Clark, what are you looking at? What do you see?"

To Clark, it was all so clear— _now._ "Nothing."

Bruce frowned. For some reason Clark's answer stung.

"Where will you be? At the Fortress?" _I don't want him to leave. Though I don't have the details, I can see something has **changed** him. He needs to talk about it. Clark shouldn't be alone._

"No. Not there."

"What if I—what if we need you?"

"I thought you knew how to find me?" Clark lips quirked upwards, but it was only a pale imitation of his usual smile.

Bruce scowled at the rain and reached up to pull off his cowl. He suspected there was nothing worse than wet Kevlar plastered to his face for a protracted length of time. He shook his head, spraying raindrops everywhere. "Yeah, in Metropolis," he answered. "No telling how long it would take me if I had to search the whole world. We're none of us getting any younger, Clark."

Clark turned away without answering. Sometimes, looking at Bruce actually hurt. Batman was the perfect combination of all that was most beautiful and most deadly, like a blue expanse of sky coupled with a raging storm. _Although our perspectives often differ, I know if everyone else in the world proves unreliable, I can rely on Batman; if ever I need a **friend,** I can call Bruce and he will be there for me as much as his nature allows. There is no one that I trust more, but I know he doesn't have it in him to understand this—_

"J'onn has my itinerary. He can contact me if there's an emergency." _But he won't._

Clark turned to face Bruce once more and floated up, slowly, as if he wanted to keep his long-time friend in his sights until the last possible moment, before he turned his back and left him behind. In the pit of his stomach he felt an incredible sinking feeling, a tightly coalescing fear that he had been seduced into crossing a thin line and could never return, said things, done things that he could never take back. _Everything is ruined. Now, every time I **look** at him it all comes rushing back to me: I see him naked, I feel him touch my face. I hear him staying my name—passionately. I taste the sweetness of his lips. I smell his unique scent. **Even if all of it was illusory, it is still a sad, pathetic fact that I love the illusions.**  
_  
He flew away through a wash of rain. The sky was a tide of blackness. Something hung heavy over everything, not thunder, but the weary weight of lies and weakness, the deception of self, the weight of knowing that all the best dreams simply slip away, ephemeral, intangible, like smoke.

 _finis_

 

 _A day never meant for me,  
maybe, stays with my memory: one  
whose beginning was nowhere  
and endless._

—Neruda

**Author's Note:**

>  **The Setting:** This story should be considered an AU, however, to the extent that it does have a relationship to a current storyline in DC Comics media, I am using the Justice League animated series as a base and setting this story sometime after the episode _Hereafter_ which is the episode where Superman is presumed dead but has actually been tossed into the future.
> 
>  **The Characterizations:** Please note that as for characterizations, I couldn't help but mix up a number of media sources since I'm new to this fandom and there's just so much conflicting stuff out there. For instance, my Lex Luthor will always be the Lex of Smallville (Michael Rosenbaum) in my head rather than some burly, gruff lunatic from the animated series or the comics, simply because it resonates with me that Clark and Lex are of an age and that Lex's obsession with Superman is somehow based on a close, personal past relationship with Clark. Conversely, I'm using Brianiac as I viewed him in the Superman and Justice League animated series, rather than any other version that might be out there. My J'onn (and other supporting heroes) comes from the Justice League animated series.
> 
>  **The Plot:** The main plot point was derived from the Justice League animated series episode _For the Man Who Has Everything_ in which Bruce and Diana arrive at the Fortress to find Superman ensnared in a fantasy of what he wanted the most and an enemy in control of the Fortress.
> 
> The version of the history of Brainiac that is used comes from Superman: the Animated Series, which established Brainiac as the supercomputer that ran most of the day-to-day operations on Krypton. The plot point at issue comes from the episode _Ghost in the Machine_ where Lex found that Brainiac had downloaded himself into LexCorp's computers in order to force Lex to rebuild him.
> 
> Another plot point was derived from the Justice League animated series episode _Twilight_ where Brainiac teams up with Darkseid in order to take control of Superman and extract his DNA in order to become a higher being.


End file.
